


Patris Amor (A Father's Love)

by Backtogiality



Series: His Dark Materials: A Father's Love [1]
Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass (2007)
Genre: Dadriel, F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, His Dark Materials Inspired, I dont know how to tag, Lord Asriel is a father, Not Canon Compliant - His Dark Materials, Rewrite, Thanks Val_creative for that iconic tag, im inconsistent sorry, shit im obsessed someone help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-02-13 12:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backtogiality/pseuds/Backtogiality
Summary: Before Mrs Coulter can steal her away, Lord Asriel hears of the Master's plans and takes Lyra away with him. Destiny will not give in, however, and father and daughter flee leave for the North in pursuit of the missing children, with slightly different motives. While en route, Lyra rediscovers something she'd long forgotten: the love of a father. There are dark forces that conspire against them, and good intentions may not be enough to combat black deeds.im bad at summarising lol sorry
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Iorek Byrnison, Lyra Belacqua & Pantalaimon
Series: His Dark Materials: A Father's Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549252
Comments: 38
Kudos: 230





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Might be shit. Also, I'm 16 and have read the full trilogy once. So don't hate, relate ;) 
> 
> or hate if you want but make it juicy lol

Lyra found herself in exactly the same position as she had been in not three weeks previously, lurking in the Hall with Pantalaimon, in the ermine form which had become his favourite, curled at her neck. The corners of her lips were turned up in a mischievous grin, revealing the teeth that she was still growing into. As before, the tables were set, the silverware much too meticulously placed for her liking. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to mess with them just a little.

She wasn’t truly interested in placemats and glasses, however. The Retiring Room, for which she was heading, was far more fascinating - and far more dangerous. She shuddered to think of the punishments that she would have to endure if she was caught. Luckily for Lyra, she was difficult to find when she needed to be, and her thin frame made her agile. 

Pantalaimon, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure of Lyra’s abilities.

“Lyra, we’ve been through this before,” he whispered harshly, and she tried to ignore the apprehension that tugged persistently at her heart. If there was one thing she resented about having a dæmon, it was that whatever Pan felt, she felt. And what Pan felt organised itself into three distinct categories: worry, joy, and worry again. “You’ve seen the Retiring Room, and look what trouble that got you into! We were lucky to make it out alive.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a coward, Pan. We’re still here, en’t we? I bet you we could get in there thirty more times without getting caught.”

She paused to run her fingers along the smooth oak of the dining table, relishing in the lack of splinters she was used to getting. A portrait of a preceding Master glared down at her disapprovingly, his black eyes seeming to narrow in discontent. For a moment, she felt fortunate to be living under the rule of the current Master, whom she perceived to be more gently stern than blatantly authoritarian.

Continuing to slink entirely unnoticed across the large room, Lyra found herself once again at the door to the Retiring Room, past the High Table and the deep purple velvet of the Master’s chair. Glinting gold in the low light was the rounded handle, and she reached for it, the freezing metal shocking her senses briefly.

“Lyra, we really shouldn’t-” Pan’s desperate whining was once again cut off as she turned the knob. Once, twice, three times. Nothing. 

Lyra felt Pantalaimon let out a sigh of relief. His breath warmed her neck, and she stole away from the door, huffing to illustrate her frustration.

“The Master might’ve locked the door after last time. He’s smarter than you give him credit for,” he admonished softly.

She was about to snap a biting reply, but her attempt was thwarted by the thundering voice of Mrs Lonsdale. Her footsteps echoed off of the stone walls, growing louder by the second.

“Lyra Belaqua! I swear, if I find you in this room, you will be for it!” 

Squeaking in surprise, Lyra darted back from the door, but it was too late. By the time she had reached the high table again Mrs Lonsdale had rounded the corner and was glowering at her, ruddy-faced. If there was one thing at Jordan that frightened Lyra, it would be the Housekeeper assigned with her care. Capable of charming many of the scholars, Lyra often found that she had absolute free rein about the College; she was able to skip lessons, to explore the roof and the dingy basements, to cavort about with Roger on his breaks. The truth was, half of them didn’t have time for her anyway, it made sense to let her do as she pleased.

Mrs Lonsdale was the exception to that rule. With strong features and a stocky build, she was a formidable figure, with a permanently pinched expression and deep-set eyes so narrow that when she was angry Lyra wondered how she could see anything at all. Sometimes she even blamed herself for any future vision problems the servant might suffer. Her nature stayed true to her outer appearance, for any encounter during which Lyra was not obsequious meant a lecture longer than many of the books she’d read, and - she shuddered to think of it - a bath that consisted of the most aggressive scrubbing imaginable. That was a fate worse than death, in her eyes. And, since her bond with Pan meant he felt everything that she did, he was on her side again. 

“Lyra! I told you to wait in your room. I was gone for five minutes, and already you’re gallivanting off God knows where and I’m tasked with finding you! This college is not small, I must have been looking forty minutes!”

Lyra hung her head in mock shame to hide her smile, nodding in what was supposed to be a bashful manner. Pantalaimon, a mouse now, shivered in the crook of her elbow.

“Yes, Mrs Lonsdale,” she muttered.

“Now, you’re going to tell me exactly what you think you were doing in the Hall before dinner, and by the Retiring Room no less! And then we’re going to scrub you until your skin is red raw if that’s what it takes to get you clean enough for our guest!” Her tone was scalding, but at the mention of a guest Lyra’s eyes lit up with a burning curiosity.

The simmering rage she could see in the Housekeeper’s frown made her bite her tongue.

“Well, you see, I was playing with Roger, and Cook asked me to check if there were enough plates set. So I thought I’d help her, with it being such a big night and all that, so I went and counted and I lost track of time-”

“Don’t lie to me, Lyra Belacqua!” Mrs Lonsdale was quite probably about to explode with fury at this point, and so Lyra changed her tactic to a more suitable, albeit less refined, technique.

“I en’t lying! Don’t you trust me?” she asked pitifully, widening her eyes until she looked (or so she thought) the picture of girlish innocence. 

The older woman’s face softened considerably, although to anyone else she would have appeared enraged. She sighed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Lyra, it’s that I know you.”

And with that, Lyra was gone, darting past the occasional scholar without and internally mapping out the quickest route that would take her as far away from Mrs Lonsdale as she could possibly get. If she missed dinner, that was the price she would have to pay to save her own neck. Pan was a moth first, the most inconspicuous of his forms, and then a hare as they built up speed. 

“Lyra!” The screech grated on her ears as she turned left onto a hallway, and right onto a lesser-used corridor, sprinting so fast she thought she might reach the speed of light (of course, she had no idea what speed that was) until she ran into a barrier she wasn’t expecting. And a barrier indeed was Lord Asriel.

Lyra’s jaw dropped as she took a stumbling step backwards, entirely disconcerted by the imposing figure before her. In the frantic action of his last visit, she’d barely had time to look at her Uncle before he’d put her in an arm-lock and shoved her into a wardrobe to spy for him. Now, she noticed that he seemed taller, if that were even possible, although she’d grown four inches since his last visit two and a half years previously. She estimated that he must be a few inches over 6 feet, and the effect was only heightened by the immense broadness of his shoulders. Piercing blue eyes glared down at her with a searching intensity that made her squirm in discomfort. Within their depths lay a fierceness that spoke of unmovable fortitude, although Lyra was far too preoccupied with her excitement to notice. When looking at Lord Asriel - although no one did for long after they met his gaze - it was hard to discern whether there was actually a man beneath the savage exterior. He possessed a face so inscrutable that often the only clue into his emotional state was his dæmon, Stelmaria. 

Just as Lyra was both enthralled and intimidated by her Uncle Asriel, Pantalaimon was captivated by the snow leopard. She felt him, in his mouse form, creep over her shoulder to peer at the other dæmon curiously. Stelmaria was the most regal dæmon that he’d ever crossed paths with; her emerald green eyes were impossibly discerning, and each strand of fur seemed perfectly in place. She lay like a sphinx might, resting her head on her front paws in a way that befitted her obvious intelligence. Certainly, she was less impulsive than her human counterpart, always taking time to advise Asriel in a drawl as soft as silk. 

“Lyra? What are you doing?” her Uncle asked, with a voice like a double-edged sword: calm and collected on one side, quietly threatening on the other. She found fairly quickly that she’d rather stay on the calmer side of the blade.

She gulped, choosing her words carefully. It was difficult to lie to Lord Asriel, as he was a trained liar himself, despite how much he generally despised falsehoods. 

“I was looking for-” She started, faltering under the sweltering heat of his gaze, but was cut off by another shout from Mrs Lonsdale.

And then she came into view, running around the corner and panting helplessly. Her usually crimson face was flaming now, and Lyra wondered whether it was the exercise or her outrage that made it so. She suspected it might be both. Deciding that her Uncle was the lesser of the two evils, she took a tentative step closer to him.

What she failed to notice was the barely suppressed smirk that crept onto Asriel’s face at the sight of the dishevelled Housekeeper, and the flicker of amusement that passed through his eyes as he glanced at his niece. 

“Lyra Belacqua, you won’t be out of your bedroom for weeks when I-” Mrs Lonsdale paused, her eyes widening in recognition. In vain she tried to straighten her posture and smooth down her skirts, but her efforts were pointless. “Lord Asriel, we weren’t expecting you until later.”

He nodded in acknowledgement.

“Yes, I was talking to the Master in his study.” He glanced at Lyra at this. “I was making my way back to my room when Lyra assaulted me.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I lost track of her. It won’t happen again,” Mrs Lonsdale assured him, but he waved her apology away.

“No matter. Lyra, this is entirely your fault. No family of mine will be caught dashing around like a madwoman, and they will absolutely not disrespect the people who are simply trying to look after them. Is that clear?”  
“I wasn’t-” Lyra figured that between a dry-heaving Mrs Lonsdale and a fiery-eyed Lord Asriel it would be best not to be stubborn, and so she conceded. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Good, now off with you.”

She didn’t need to be told twice, following a disgruntled Mrs Lonsdale and responding vaguely to comments such as “Imagine being caught in that state! And by Lord Asriel no less!” and “Just because he’s your uncle, Lyra, doesn’t mean you can get away with anything”. Eventually, her escape attempt proved useless as she was shoved roughly into the bathtub and relentlessly scrubbed clean until her even her skin seemed to be crying for help. Pantalaimon, being her only form of entertainment for the better part of an hour, had transformed into a goldfish and was now making rounds in the water, thwarting Lyra’s attempts to catch him and causing her to giggle every so often.

Once the bath was over, and a brush had been raked ruthlessly through her tangled curls, Lyra was forced into her ‘best dress’ - really a hideous pinafore over a stark white shirt - she was deemed suitable to be seen by the esteemed guest of the college. To tell the truth, she didn’t honestly think Lord Asriel would care what she wore as long as she was clean, and she checked her fingernails once more to ascertain this.

Finally, she was allowed to go to dinner, and was ushered towards the high table rather than the longer tables she usually sat at. This struck her as odd, for Lyra ate with Roger and the servants instead of with the scholars - mostly because she found their conversations to be too boring to endure, but also because they centred around things that were “too old for her ears”, whatever that meant.

“It must be something important if we’re eating with the Master,” she mumbled to Pantalaimon, who’s ermine head was poking out of her pocket.

“Well, of course,” he replied. “Lord Asriel’s here.”

“Yes, but he was here two weeks ago. He probably en’t here to see us.” I reckon-” She would have said more, but she’d reached her seat and had been left to the mercy of the Master.

“Good evening, Lyra,” he said kindly. The Master was a man Lyra was fond of, and who was fond of her in return. He had an aged face with a wide nose and sunken eyes, but it was impossible to ascertain whether he was seventy or ancient. She supposed she rather liked that about him; it added a sense of mystery, and she liked to solve mysteries. (Not that the opportunity arose often).

Lyra nodded her head in greeting and sunk into the plush velvet of her chair. 

“You already know Lord Asriel, of course, and the Librarian.”

Again, she was as polite as it was possible for her to be, but immediately turned to her Uncle. 

“Why are you back so quickly? Didn’t you go to the North? Did your expedition go wrong? Are you looking for more funding or something?” 

He smirked slightly, avoiding each one. 

“So many questions, Lyra. But I’m more interested in what you’ve been up to.”

At that, he turned his gaze on the Master, and Lyra noticed a flicker of contempt in his eyes. Something akin to an anbaric current sliced through the air, leaving an ever-expanding tension in its destructive wake. All of a sudden she wasn’t quite so pleased to be at the high table; she had a feeling that their discussion had not gone favourably, especially after the attempted poisoning. In fact, she had no idea why he’d come back after that. Surely he’d want to avoid Jordan if he knew there were people there that wanted him dead? 

Her Uncle was a fearless man, never one to stoop. And yet, she couldn’t help but worry for him, worry that his pride could be his downfall. 

“Well, the Librarian was teaching me about electrons, and how they work. I’d rather be in the North with you. Won’t you take me?”

Lyra looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. She hoped that her show of innocuity would convince him to whisk her away with him, to see the armoured bears. Ever since she’d first heard of them, she’d been fascinated by their lack of dæmons and tales of vicious, gruesome power struggles, in which one bear would end up ripped to pieces. They’d see the aurora together, bathing in the curtains of ethereal light, searching for that city in the sky. And Lord Asriel would ask her to note down his findings, or the temperature, or mark where they were on his maps. She felt the moonlight kissing her skin, the wind through her hair and the biting cold arresting her senses. 

“Snap out of it!” Pan hissed, and she blinked dazedly. The Master had been watching her with a small smile, and it seemed that the jarring moment was over.

“Not now, Lyra. There are many things you don’t understand, but you will in time. But eventually, yes. I will take you.”

“That’s what you always say! And then you leave me again and I don’t see you for years at a time!” She was indignant now. It was so unfair! As much as she loved Roger, and the halls of Jordan, and even Mrs Lonsdale, she wanted to see the world. How could she do that from within the college?

“Listen, Lyra,” the Master said firmly. “Your Uncle and I have made an agreement.”

At this, her interest was piqued and she looked sharply at him.

“What sort of agreement?”

“Lyra, I’m going to take you out of Jordan college to live with me. If I see you’ve progressed enough in your studies, I’ll take you to the North with me. Do you understand?”

With Asriel’s proposition, Lyra’s world brightened and darkened all at once. The prospect of actually getting to see the North was one she’d long dreamt about, but it was an unrealistic fantasy (as much as she claimed she had no imagination). But leaving behind everything she knew and loved? Was she really ready for that? There was only one person she felt she could consult, and that was Roger. And so she set off for the kitchens to find him.

What she didn’t know, however, was that Roger hadn’t been seen for hours. The Cook would tell Lyra that he'd be punished for skiving off, but he wouldn't - because Roger would walk the halls of Jordan College no more.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for a wild ride bitches, because planning is for virgos
> 
> ps. not much Asriel in this one, but we'll make it up with a *spicy* few chapters later :)

Lyra was torn between feeling ecstatic, anxious and sombre all at once, and if she was truthful (which she often wasn’t) it was exhausting to feel all of these emotions. Pantalaimon was almost asleep, his eyes drooping as he perched as a moth on her shoulder.

“C’mon, Pan. You en’t gonna fall asleep now, are you? We’ve got to find Roger,” she said, and she felt his resolve strengthen with her renewed determination.

They made for the kitchens again, hoping he was still working. It was late, however, and the corridors were growing darker by the minute. Fearing evoking Mrs Lonsdale’s wrath for the second time that day, they walked briskly to avoid being out of bed after sunset. 

“It’s going to be strange living with Lord Asriel, isn’t it?” Pan mused. “I mean, we barely know him.”

“I dunno. But he’s going to take us to the North! It’s what we’ve wanted for so long now, Pan, and we’re finally going! I en’t going to care if it’s awkward at first, as long as we get to go exploring.”

The very thought of an expedition sent her mind reeling, but she was forced out of her reverie as Pantalaimon nipped her ear to get her attention, now an ermine.

“Ouch! Pan, that hurt,” she whined.

“We have to focus. Now, let’s see if Cook’s seen him.”

Not a second had passed after Lyra opened the heavy wooden door to the kitchens when her senses were seized by the dissonant clanging of pots, the shouting of the servants over the din and the remnants of the smell of dinner. Desperately, she scanned the small crowd for any sign of her friend, but was bitterly disappointed.

“Cook? Cook!” She called. “Have you seen Roger?”

His brow seemed to furrow in confusion until he too looked around and his eyes widened in realisation. “Come to think of it, I haven’t. Mr Cawson’s going to wring his neck once he gets hold of him!”

Lyra bit her lip, clutching Pantalaimon so tightly that he hissed in protest. They tried to force down the creeping feeling of panic they were experiencing, but as they asked each servant for information on Roger’s whereabouts and were met with half-hearted shrugs and non-committal “I don't know”s, she grew more and more frustrated.

“Oh, bugger off Lyra,” snapped one of the younger dishwashers, and she finally exploded. “You're in my way.” 

“None of you could care less about Roger! You en’t worried at all! He could be freezing cold and starving or drowned in the canal for all you know! And what are you doing about it? Nothing!” 

To her annoyance, she felt frustrated tears welling in her eyes and blinked them back furiously. How dare they? 

Pan bristled, transforming into a wildcat and hissing brutally at the offender. ‘If that was us missing, they'd be stumbling over themselves to find us, but Roger’s just a servant to them. They're not bothered,’ he thought to Lyra, still growling.

“Edna, please. Lyra, I promise you that we will do everything we can to find out where Roger is. But you’re being ridiculous! I’m sure he just lost track of time - you were out with him earlier, weren’t you?” Cook’s attempts to placate her were not working, and seeing this, he softened.

Lyra barely registered his hand on her shoulder, but when she did she shook it off.

“There’s no need to worry, alright? Roger will be back before you know it and if you write him a goodbye letter, I’ll make sure to pass it on.”

It was clear that they weren’t going to make any progress, and so Lyra pushed past the servants and out of the kitchens, slamming the door behind her. In the twenty or so minutes that they’d been asking around, the corridors had become almost pitch black, with the occasional dappled patch of moonlight illuminating the corridor. Had she not known the corridors like the back of her hand, she would have been completely and utterly lost.

“We only saw him hours ago, Pan! We shouldn’t have left him alone,” she said darkly. 

“We weren’t to know he’d go missing. Besides, we tried to convince him to come with us. He wasn’t having any of it.”

“Still,” sighed as she reached her bedroom. “I can’t help feeling responsible.”

Lyra changed for bed and finally sank under the covers. Her room was mostly bare, furnished with an oak wardrobe, desk and chest of drawers. The walls were a dreadful beige colour, although she’d tried to liven them up a bit ages ago by drawing images of what she might see in the far North. Having very little imagination, this was difficult, since all she’d had to go on was the word of a scholar who’d been an explorer in his day. Quite quickly, however, she found that she didn’t have the talent (or the patience) for drawing and had given up.

Pantalaimon pulled the duvet up to Lyra’s chin and curled up at her neck, his body heat helping to warm her up. 

“Lyra...don’t you think it’s strange that Roger disappeared right after we played Gobblers?”

Her brow furrowed. They’d snuck out into the streets of Oxford that day, revelling in the hustle and bustle the Gyptians brought along with them seasonally. By telling some only-slightly-modified tales about her Uncle, Lyra had beguiled some Gyptian boys into playing with them. The game must have lasted hours as they weaved in and out of side streets, knocking into various ladies and catching each other every so often. There was a thrill in the chase for Lyra that Roger, dear as he was to her, would never understand. Because Roger believed in the Gobblers, for him they were not simply a game but reality, not a nightmare but a possibility lurking around every corner, and so he never allowed himself to sink completely into the adventure of it all. In every shadow there was danger, and he could never fully rid himself of that ever-present fear. While Lyra didn’t believe in them herself, she knew Roger did, and trusting him as completely as she did, her dæmon’s words struck a jarring chord within her.

If there was one thing that would make Roger play that game, it was the prospect of making friends. They were the only children at Jordan worth being interested in, really. Although Lyra accepted him completely, she had always sensed that Roger felt like an outcast. When she wanted to go back to the college, she’d let him stay behind for that reason. And if he had been taken by anyone...

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said unsteadily, but Pantalaimon was persistent. 

“Think about it, Lyra! First Tony Makarios, you know - the Gyptian boy? He went missing days ago. Not a trace of him anywhere. And now Roger? Come on, you know something’s off. If we deny it, we can’t do anything about it.”

“Don’t you say that! I don’t even want to think it,” she protested indignantly, turning away from him in a huff. Pantalaimon remained silent after that, but there was fretfulness radiating from him in great waves, and it could have been hours before she slipped into a restless sleep.

That night she dreamt of the stars and the dazzling lights of the aurora, and of Pantalaimon at her side as they pushed through the bitter Northern wind, which seemed to fight them back with colossal force. The snow was almost knee-deep, crunching underfoot and growing deeper and deeper until she was somehow up to her neck in the blanket of immaculate alabaster. Something snapped then, and suddenly it was constricting her movements. And then she couldn’t breathe, and she felt the life draining out of her until she stopped trying. Above her, standing perfectly on the surface of the snow: Roger! His face was contorted into a disdainful scowl that twisted his every feature, mocking her for her weakness, and it was a foreign expression, downright wrong and malicious and impossibly frightening, and she found herself just wanting to sink into the snow and…

He was saying something now, downturned lips moving in what could have been a curse or a final insult. But there seemed never to be an end to it. He kept going, chanting silently until she wondered if her sense of hearing might have disappeared entirely. But it hadn’t, because the wind was still roaring so loudly, rearing its ugly head in a howl deafening enough that it was noiseless. 

Lyra felt an unseen force tugging at her ankles so hard that she feared they would dislocate. Everything began to fade, and she was grasping for something, anything to keep her grounded. Her efforts were to no avail. Pure, merciless white consumed her vision, and the wind ceased at last; her reaction to the severe cold was replaced by a much more sinister indifference and at last, she relinquished control over her own fate. Sinking willingly into the snow, she closed her eyes.

Perhaps she heard Roger whisper, “You should have saved me.” She was unable to care.

Lyra awoke, gasping for breath with the thirst of a dying man seeking water. Relief permeated her bones as air filled her lungs, rejuvenating her with each inhale. Pantalaimon seemed just as disturbed by the dream as she had been, burrowing into her side and letting out little sniffles every so often.

“It was just a dream,” she told herself, but with each repetition, the notion drifted further and further away. “But it felt so real…”

“You were right last night, Lyra. I’m sorry. I just thought…” Pan was sheepish now, his apology trailing off as he looked up at her apologetically.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. If we can’t see Roger, we’ll just have to write him a letter. I bet they’ve found him and he’s being punished now, anyways.”

They got up, and Lyra washed and dressed herself. 

“We’ll miss him, but he’ll be happy for us, won’t he? He knows I en’t staying here forever - but we’re going sooner than expected.”

“I’m sure he will,” Pantalaimon reassured her. 

There was a loud knocking at the door. They opened it to find Mrs Lonsdale, regarding them with a more tender expression than normal. It made for a nice change: Lyra couldn’t remember the last time the woman hadn’t been screaming at her or attacking her with a sponge. 

“Oh, I will miss you, Lyra. Jordan College won’t be the same without you,” she said gently, bringing a hand to her cheek. “Even if you are a pain in my arse.”

Tender moment over.

“Now, you’ll need to make your way over to the Master’s study, he wants to talk to you before you leave. I’ve packed a suitcase for you, that’s on its way to the zeppelin. Oh, what else? Oh yes, the Librarian suggested some books you might like, so I packed those…” 

Seeing Lyra’s politely disinterested expression, she chuckled. “Go on, child. I expect you’re wanting to find Lord Asriel.”

Lyra sent her a grateful smile before running to find the Master. Pantalaimon snarled as Cousins, their long-time rival, opened the door. She wasn’t quite sure what exactly had started their feud: maybe it was the time Lyra had caught and released numerous spiders into his room, or the general distasteful haughtiness of the man - but they’d never gotten along. Today, though, he was surprisingly polite, refraining from making any snide comments about the “rat” coming to visit. 

The Master was in his element surrounded by knowledge. His study was enormous, each wall lined with bookshelves upon bookshelves of novels and dissertations and studies. Cherry-coloured wood made up the floor, giving the room an undeniable air of luxury. As in the Dining Hall, portraits of former Masters and their dæmons hung either side of the great window at the wall farthest from her, overseeing every important conversation and decision. At the centre of the room, seated at an ornate desk, was the Master. Despite his relaxed state, he looked older than she’d ever seen him. His skin, paper-thin, hung from his bones, and his eyes were engulfed by the deep circles surrounding them.

“Master? Mrs Lonsdale said you asked to see me?” Lyra asked.

At the sight of her, the Master seemed to brighten considerably. “Ah, Lyra. Thank you for indulging me, and for your punctuality. If only you shared the same attitude towards your lessons.”

She felt herself go red with embarrassment, but he only laughed.

“No matter. Anyway, I called you here both to say goodbye, and because I have something to give you.”  
“What do you mean?” She asked eagerly.

“I’ll get to that. Now, I wasn’t sure whether or not I should let you go with Lord Asriel, but I have no choice in the matter. It has been decided,” he said gravely. At once that anbaric current she had felt at dinner the previous evening was back. A storm raged in the Master’s eyes, and she stepped back instinctively to avoid the fallout. 

“Why not? He is my Uncle, after all.”

Again the air became thick with tension, and eventually the Master gave in, seeming to choose his words rather carefully.

“I almost gave custody of you to someone entirely different - a woman named Mrs Coulter - in the hopes that she would keep you safe-”

“Why would I need to be kept safe? I en’t in any danger.”

“Not at Jordan, you aren’t. But it won’t be safe for you much longer. I was going to give you to Mrs Coulter until your Uncle found out. He was - displeased, to say the least, and decided to take you himself. Of course, you know Lord Asriel. Once he makes up his mind there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him or change his course. But he is a powerful man, and in this society men like him do not go unnoticed. You must promise me that you will be careful,” he warned.

“Yes, Master…”

“I need your word, Lyra.”

“I promise,” she relented. 

“Good. Now, onto lighter - but no less serious - matters. I need you to look after this.”

He handed her a heavy, golden instrument and watched as her eyes lit up with unbridled curiosity. It was circular and surprisingly deep, and the surface was engraved with intricately beautiful patterns. On opening it, she couldn’t contain a gasp of delight. It reminded her of a clock, except with four hands - one of which was long and so thin that she hadn’t even registered its existence at first sight. Around the rim she counted thirty-six images, each of different symbols. They were painted in crude colours, but this did not detract from their allure: she made out a serpent, an apple, an hourglass with a skull on top of it. Each seemed to represent something, although she had no idea what.

“It’s gorgeous,” she sighed reverently, still in awe of its grace.

“It arrived with you when you came here,” said the Master. “No one knows where it came from. It’s called an alethiometer. You may ask it any question, and it will tell you the truth. This is one of only six ever made.”

“How does it work?”

“You set the three smaller hands to the correct symbols pertaining to your question. Each has an infinite number of meanings, so it’s impossible to discover them all. The longer hand will provide you with an answer. I’ve never understood it myself. It’s a skill that takes a lifetime to learn.”

“And you’re trusting me with this?” 

The Master chuckled again. “Yes, Lyra. It’s rightfully yours, after all. But I wouldn’t mention it to Lord Asriel.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m not sure he was aware of it himself when he brought you here during the Great Flood. It’s impossible to say how he might react to your possession of it, and I don’t suppose he would be hostile in any way. Still, it’s better not to tell anybody.”

“Thank you, Master,” was all she was able to say, and he smiled in return.

“You’ve always been a good child, Lyra. Keep yourself safe.”

She and Pan left the study, running outside to the silver mass of metal that was the zeppelin. On board, she found her Uncle sitting casually in an armchair, reading a newspaper.

“You took your time,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Another minute or so and I would have left without you.”

Lyra murmured an apology before turning to stare out of the window, stroking a cat-formed Pantalaimon. Truth be told, she felt awfully guilty - the letter she’d managed to write Roger had been brief at best, and she’d forgotten to ask for a forwarding address for the reply. And then there was the matter of last night’s dream: a manifestation of this guilt, yes, but there was something deeply disturbing about it. The image of Roger, grinning sadistically at her, hadn’t left her mind since she’d been awake, and she knew it was troubling Pan too.

“Lyra?” Lord Asriel’s voice pulled her forcefully out of her stupour. “What’s troubling you?”

Surprised at his sudden show of kindness, she had no reply other than: “I dunno.”

He frowned. “You mean you don’t know, Lyra. Cheer up. If you behave, perhaps there’s a chance I’ll tell you how I found Grumann’s head.”

Her eyes widened until she noticed a rare smile lighting his face, and she returned it with a small one of her own. Pushing her friend to the back of her mind, she focused her attention on bombarding her Uncle with questions about his adventures. This time, she was determined to get some answers out of him. 

The difference was that this time, he was happy to give them to her.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this is too slow-moving, too dull. Idk, I haven't got a plan so much as a bunch of random ideas. Still, I know the focus was on Roger a lot these past two chapters because I felt like Lyra didn't really think about him in the first book, especially when she was with Mrs Coulter. Possibly, that was part of Lyra's being under her spell, but I thought it ought to be explored more. So here you go!

Throughout the journey, Lord Asriel finally explained to Lyra the basics of his adventures in the North. She’d been captivated, leaning forward in her seat as he’d spoken quietly of the armoured bears and the Northern Lights. He’d met the bear king, Iofur Rakinson, who wanted a dæmon more than anything else in the world, he’d fought the Tartars and he’d studied the Aurora extensively. Lyra then remembered the photograms he’d shown the Scholars at Jordan, and was desperate to know more about them.

“Tell me about Dust,” she demanded, but the look in her Uncle’s eyes silenced her immediately.

“Lyra,” he said in a muted voice which made his words inaudible to others on board, but nonetheless authoritative. “You must be careful about what you say, especially about Dust, and even more so when others are present. I won’t hear any more of it.”

Pantalaimon shivered next to her, his little mouse-nose pressing into the palm of her hand. 

“Why? I en’t stupid, we can look after ourselves, can’t we Pan?” 

He didn’t look so sure.

“Your curiosity will be the death of us both. But you must understand, Lyra, that as your uncle it is my job to keep you safe. With what’s happening in London…” 

His jaw was locked, she noticed, and he was looking intently at her.

“What do you mean? What’s going on?” Beneath the superficial eagerness to understand the situation, Lyra felt herself sinking, just as she had done in that awful dream. It unsettled her greatly, and so she suppressed it and turned her attention back to Lord Asriel.

“There have been...disappearances of children around the country, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’d be surprised if you weren’t, considering your character - but the epicentre of the kidnappings is in London. I was reluctant to bring you right into the thick of it, but there’s not much else I can do,” he said. Stelmaria whispered something to him that Lyra couldn’t quite understand, and he shook his head in a wordless reply.

Meanwhile, she felt her own hands beginning to tremble, and tucked them underneath her legs to make it less noticeable. 

“D’you mean the Gobblers?” she asked, loudly than she’d intended.

“Keep your voice down! But there have been rumours, yes. Why do you ask? You’ve not encountered them, have you?”

If she’d been the protagonist of one of the novels the Librarian had been secretly lending her, perhaps the world would have begun to spin, but it didn’t. In fact, Lyra stayed perfectly still, unable to find the energy within herself to move, let alone speak. But speak she did. 

“I- not me, no. But my friend, Roger... we were playing in the streets with the Gyptians yesterday, and no one’s seen him since.”

Her Uncle leaned back in his seat, his expression relatively unchanged. She’d notice he’d tensed as she gave her answer, but he covered it well. 

“Are you sure there’s no way he got lost? Did you look for him?” 

“Course we did,” she said. “No trace of him anywhere. I asked all the kitchen staff, but they told me to bugger off. Now I’ve left him, and he might’ve been took by the Gobblers.”

He chose to ignore her language, choosing his own words carefully.

“It was wrong for them to ignore your concerns. However, it is a fact of life that most adults are short-sighted. When you live on a sustenance wage, you tend to forget that there is more to life than making it home with enough to buy a loaf of bread at the end of the day. To them, Roger is missing for the day, and he’ll be back tomorrow. There’s no more to it than that. Upon our arrival, I’ll write them a letter and I’ll make certain you get a reply. If they still haven’t found him, then yes - it’s very likely that he has been taken. And if he has, they’re getting bolder.” 

“What then?” asked Lyra, trying to hide her despair. “We’d have to do something!”

“I’m going to be completely honest with you, Lyra. I’m can’t promise anything, but I will try to locate your friend. There isn’t much more I can do.”

“But-”

“I told you three weeks ago that there are things you do not understand, nor should you have to at your age. This is one of those things. If it’s possible, we will get Roger back. If he’s out of our reach, then he’s out of our reach. My priority is your safety, and I will not endanger you for the sake of a kitchen boy.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Lyra resigned to staring out of the window again, with Pan attempting to lift her spirits by pointing out various shapes on the ground below and guessing what they might be. As sweet as his efforts were, neither human nor dæmon could shake the storm cloud of the blackest dread that hung over them.

At some point, she must have drifted off, for she was awoken by her Uncle shaking her shoulder lightly. 

“Lyra? We’ve landed. Get your things.”

Blinking the sleep out of their eyes, she and Pantalaimon did as they were told, with Lyra dragging the suitcase behind her. Lord Asriel took it from her as they disembarked, leaving her to admire the landscape. A sea of green lay before her: a great expanse of grass could be seen for acres and acres, and at the outskirts clusters of trees huddled together to escape the late-October cold. She welcomed the light breeze that met her face after the stuffy air on the zeppelin. 

Lyra turned to ask her Uncle where exactly they were, but he had already started walking and was now a good distance away from her. She ran the fifty or so meters in no time at all, having been accustomed to exploring at Jordan.

“Uncle Asriel, where are we?”

“About three or so miles out of London, and then we’ll walk another three,” he said. “I hope you’re not opposed to walking, because you don’t get a choice in the matter.”

“I en’t. Pan and me spent ages exploring the college. That probably goes on for miles. Can I ask you a question?”

“I couldn’t stop you if I tried, unfortunately.”

“Where are we going? I know you mentioned London, but if that’s where...they are, is it safe?”

He saw her then as she was: not a pesky distraction, but a child - in his care, no less. Lyra was impossible to keep at arm’s length, for she had emotions and fears, as much as she would hate to admit it, and she worried for their safety. From that moment on, it was difficult to view her in any other way.

“Of course not, but where better to hide than in plain sight?”

She hummed in agreement, and once again there was a silence, although it was altogether less uncomfortable than the last. After about an hour, they reached the outer edges of London. They passed bustling streets and markets and Lyra was both dispirited and excited by the unfamiliarity of the city before her. The smells of strange spices wafted through the air, and her stomach growled continually. She pondered over her uncle’s earlier statement and came to the conclusion that he was far too intimidating a man to go unnoticed, even in a crowd of many thousands. Stelmaria, exquisite as she was, only added to the effect, as many who saw the pair hung their heads and made way for them.   
Pantalaimon, excitable in the face of adventure, bounded at her heels as a golden retriever. Obviously, he was enjoying London more than Lyra was.

“How much further, do you think?” He asked her after another hour. “I’m getting tired.”

It must have been four o’clock by then, and having been travelling since eight that morning, fatigue was beginning to set in. Lyra shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t think it’ll be much longer, though.”

As it turned out, Lyra was right, because Lord Asriel took one more right and stopped in front of a modest townhouse. She counted four windows, framed by red bricks. An ebony-painted door made for a gloomy, yet inconspicuous entryway.

“Did you rent this?” she asked as he opened the door to reveal a well-furnished living room. Naptha lamps emanated a golden glow, warming the room and casting deep shadows on the walls. Two brown leather armchairs occupied one wall, whilst the others were taken up by ornate, dark-wood bookshelves. Lyra wondered what her uncle liked to read; she couldn’t imagine him settling down to a crime novel or, dare she think it, a romance. They set down their suitcases and Lyra collapsed into a chair, for once exhausted.

“No, I bought it.”

“How did you afford it, then? I thought you were broke!” She failed to stop the words from falling from her lips, but he didn’t seem offended. Instead, he grinned, and although it was uncommon it suited his face.

“The Scholars give me funding for my expeditions.”

“Yes, for your explorations, not for houses.”

“Well,” he said, kneeling to light the large fireplace at the far end of the room. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Surely it would be in your best interests not to tell them, anyway.”

Once he succeeded, he sat in the chair next to her own, stretching out his legs. He reminded her of a lion, fierce and relaxed at the same time, and she supposed it fit with the form of his dæmon. Her own Pantalaimon was an ermine again, and nearly asleep.

“I wanted to ask you-” she said, unsure of how to phrase her question. “The Master said there was a woman coming to take me out of Jordan, and that’s why you came back. Is it true?”

Gone was the relaxed posture as his eyes bore into hers. 

“He wasn’t supposed to tell you that. What more did he say?”

“Not much. Her name was Mrs Coulter, I think…”

He cursed, getting to his feet. “We will not speak of her again, do you hear me?”

“I don’t understand-”

“You don’t understand anything! You’re just a child, Lyra! A child, and you have no idea of the power of that name.”

Lyra’s mind was spiralling at an unimaginable pace. What was so bad about Mrs Coulter? Granted, she had no idea who she was, or what she did, but for her to rattle the infamous Lord Asriel? She must have been someone special. 

“He didn’t tell me anything more,” she said. “Just that you were angry when you found out about her.”

His back was turned, and he paced about the room as if that very action was going to solve his problems.

“Mrs Coulter is the most dangerous woman you can imagine,” he said, suddenly still and deceitfully calm. “Not only is she ambitious, she has the charm and the intelligence to fulfil those ambitions. She possesses the rare ability to make the world fall at her feet is she desires it, and I can tell you that she does. You would do well to remember that.”

“So you know her, then?” said Lyra. 

“I have met her, yes.” There was a pause in which no one knew what to say. “You should go and unpack your things. Your room is the first door on the right.”

It wasn’t a suggestion but an order, and she didn’t dare defy it. Lugging her suitcase up the stairs was a feat more difficult she had anticipated, but between them she and Pan just about managed it. 

Opening the door to her bedroom, she couldn’t help but feel upset. Her room at Jordan had been plain, yes, but it had been hers. Her crude drawings and secret notes littered the walls, harboured the memories of sneaking out with Roger and running on the roofs, enduring horrific baths and hatching plans with a reluctant Pantalaimon. Jordan had been her home for as long as she could remember, and the only other place she felt she might find that home again was in the North: out in the acidic cold, snowflakes attacking her hair. She’d find solace in those bright, violent explosions of colour in the sky. Lyra made her home wherever adventure was, but here she somehow felt as if she were stuck between two worlds, the one she’d left behind, and the one she was going to - as if she were in some sort of purgatory. 

Lyra had barely put two skirts away before she became bored, half-falling onto the soft mattress of her new bed.

“Oh, what are we going to do, Pan?” She asked, hoping her companion might provide some semblance of a useful answer. 

“I don’t know. But I think we should write to Roger. Lord Asriel can give him our letter when he asks about him.” As a black cat, he sidled up to her, rubbing his head against her legs. Lyra picked him up tenderly, cradling him to her chest like a baby.

“Do you really think he’s been taken by the Gobblers? I still en’t sure I believe in them. But if Uncle Asriel says so...I don’t think he’d lie, and then there’s poor Tony…”

“Try not to think about it.” His advice was futile, and he knew it, but he could think of nothing else to say. 

‘Dear Roger’, she wrote, but she found she had no idea what she was supposed to say. What, ‘Roger, sorry if you’ve been taken by the Gobblers and it’s my fault but I thought I’d just make sure you’re enjoying herself?’ Lyra didn’t think that would go down very well, so she tried a different approach.

Dear Roger,  
I hope you’re okay. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving, but it happened so quickly! I’m sure you know - Cook probably told you - but Lord Asriel came back, and we were all having dinner and then he told me he was bringing me to London with him, and then to the North! Can you imagine that, Roger? The only bad thing is that you aren’t here. Hopefully Mr Cawson didn’t give you a hard time when you got back. Did you get lost, or something? Anyway, London is very different from Oxford. It’s a lot busier, for a start, and everyone has a short temper. Maybe that’s why Uncle Asriel fits in so well - if he fits in anywhere. It’s going to be strange, living in a new city, but it’ll all be worth it once I get to the North! I’ll tell you all about it, and I’ll come and visit you as soon as I can.

Kind Regards (is that how you sign off a letter? The Librarian told me it is, but it doesn’t sound right).  
Lyra.

Once she’d finished, she folded it over and decided to take it downstairs to Lord Asriel. She found him sitting in the same place he’d been an hour ago, abandoned papers on the table next to him as he stared into the fire.

“Uncle Asriel?” 

His head snapped up, and she thought he might be angry with her for interrupting him, but he merely nodded. “What is it?”

“Well, I know you said you’d write a letter to Jordan. To check up on Roger, and all that. So I wrote him a letter, and I thought you could send it to him. Please?” She remembered her manners, because with Lord Asriel she wasn’t the one in charge - he was, however much she disliked that fact.

“You didn’t tell him our location?” said her uncle.

“No, not exactly. Just that we‘re in London. If you need me to change something, I can.”

“That should be fine. We must be careful though, you understand. You never know who’s watching the post, these days.”

“You mean the Magesterium?” Lyra had heard about the Magesterium and its power, although she never understood the true extent of it. Had she lived as a Gyptian or outside of the college, she would have known that the Church controlled every word, every action, every thought that existed. They controlled the schools, the shops, the businesses - everywhere in Oxford except for Jordan. Scholastic sanctuary had shielded her from the horrors of the Government, but she could be protected no longer.

“Something like that. You must be careful with what you say, and I cannot stress this enough, Lyra. You are not in Jordan College anymore. There is no scholastic sanctuary and there is no Master to hide you if you get caught saying anything with even a remote trace of heresy behind it. If they want to prosecute you, they will. You cannot give them any reason to.” Seeing that his speech was doing little, he reached for the letter, shaking his head as he did so. “You must be hungry, and it’s late. We’ll eat, and then I want you off to bed.”

Lyra didn’t answer but complied with his wishes. When they were finished with their meal, she glanced once more at the counter on which her letter lay unopened. Her hopes were soaring for a reply, no matter how unrealistic that wish was. She wished her uncle and his dæmon goodnight, and headed up those unfamiliar stairs to her unfamiliar bedroom in an unfamiliar city.  
Again, she dreamed of Roger, and again she dreamed of the North. It was the same as before: she was drowning in the snow, watching as Roger stared at her from above, motionless, and she felt her soul slipping away until a strong pair of hands hauled her up and back onto the surface. She didn’t see him, but she knew those hands belonged to Lord Asriel.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well lads, it's been many years since I last saw you - jk, it might feel like that, but it's been a month. Sorry for my lack of updates, my initial enthusiasm led to three chapters in a week and a lot of procrastination. Still, now that I'm out of college for Christmas I'll be able to update more. And it's a long one today - over 3500 words! Let me know if you enjoy, and I'd love some feedback on my actual writing. No idea what'll happen with the plot, but you never know! Please enjoy!

The following days seemed to blur together into one for Lyra. Gradually, a routine - if slightly stilted - began to develop. In the mornings, she woke early to have breakfast with Lord Asriel. He began teaching her everything she might need to know if they went to the North: the basics of mathematics and of geography, or (if she was lucky) experimental theology. 

“What did they teach you at the college?” her uncle asked, coldly bewildered. His reproachful eyes scanned for any falsehoods she might chance telling him. She wouldn’t dare under the intensity of that gaze.

Lyra had shrugged, “I dunn- I don’t know.”

Pantalaimon, who was still intimidated by Lord Asriel, hid timidly as a mouse in her pocket. Every once in a while he’d emerge to catch a glimpse of Stelmaria, or of the books Lyra was studying in a vain attempt to help her. 

Lord Asriel hummed in dissatisfaction, clearly unimpressed with the teachings of the Scholars. Not that she blamed him. Though they were learned men, the Scholars had no idea how to handle teaching a child and failed to keep track of when Lyra’s lessons were, or what they’d been about. If she played her cards right, and told carefully crafted lies, she could go a week or two without enduring the perpetual torture she called education. Resultantly, she could talk endlessly about the electron, or Pythagoras’ theorem, but when it came to basic astronomy she was clueless. Lyra’s knowledge was like a dictionary with only a tenth of the words, or as Pantalaimon had remarked once, a mouse-bitten map of the world (perhaps with entire continents missing). Within familiar areas her understanding was extensive, but on a broader scope, it was useless. 

On this particular morning, they were studying the atom. Lord Asriel described the charges of each sub-atomic particle - the proton, she learned, carried a positive charge. The neutron was neutral, and both resided in the nucleus. He pointed to a diagram and asked her to label the respective parts. Once she’d finished, he began to talk about the electron, but she beat him to it in her excitement to show that she actually knew something. Lyra couldn’t care less if the Scholars thought she was clever or not, but she found herself desperately wanting to impress her uncle, whether it was simply because they were related or for the purpose of going to the North as early as possible. 

“The electron,” she stated proudly. “Is a negatively charged sub-atomic particle. It has a mass of almost zero.”

At her words, she thought she saw the faintest traces of a smile on Lord Asriel’s face as he listened, but she put it down to relief. Lyra tried her best, and was a relatively quick learner, but with the number of gaps she had, it had taken her hours to grasp basic concepts and interweave them with the ones she knew.

“Yes,” said Lord Asriel. “The electrons orbit the nucleus in shells. The negative charge balances out the positive charge from the protons - neutrons are neutral - so the atom has no overall charge.”

“Can an atom become charged?”

“Yes. When it loses or gains electrons it becomes an ion, which is a charged particle. But it must have a full outer shell.” 

Slowly, she nodded, not fully understanding until Pantalaimon put the information into context. “It’s like when we go to war with the brick burners’ kids. We’re on the opposite team to the other college kids usually, but we team up against them. So the Jordan kids would be the protons in the nucleus, and the kids from Sophia’s would be the neutrons, because we don’t like them, but we’re on their team. The townies would be the electrons because they try attacking all of us from outside.”

It all made sense suddenly, and Lyra was filled with a longing nostalgia for the simpler days, when all she had to worry about was whether the clay was wet enough to pelt at her enemies in the Claybeds. Alliances had been made and broken on warm Summer evenings, the air filled with the shrieking joy of children as they fought half-seriously in the mud. The lands of Jordan College held much more appeal now: as they’d flown over she had asked Lord Asriel how much of the terrain below belonged to it. 

“Most of it. Where do you think they get their money from?” He’d replied.

At that moment she became aware that at Jordan, she’d been a part of something much bigger than herself. The influence of the College spread through the entire country, and it was the most prominent in Europe and new France. She’d known this, of course, having boasted pridefully about it to the less-fortunate and very annoying children of Oxford, but she had been recalling mindless facts. In the innocently self-centred way of a child, Lyra had considered herself the beating heart or the exuberant limbs of the college (in more than the physical sense, because many of the Scholars were ancient and she suspected they didn’t have working forms of either). But now she realised that there were other children of Jordan, even if they didn’t know it, living and working on its property and essentially putting food on her table. An adventurer to her very bones, Lyra wished she could explore those woods and fields as she had the roofs and the crypts. She’d had Roger at her side, then. 

How she missed him! He was more of a worrier than a warrior or a savage like she was, but he was sweet and followed her wherever she went like a lost puppy. Many a time they argued over the final form of their dæmons. Lyra didn’t want Pantalaimon to settle, but she always thought Salcilia might be some breed of dog, perhaps a retriever. Roger had dissented heatedly that he wanted to do something more with his life, although he had no clue what it was. But now he wasn’t replying to any of her letters, and if she wanted to make sure he would be able to, she’d need a decent education.

“Pan, you’re a genius!” she whispered, turning to address her uncle. “So the electrons orbit the nucleus...like the Sun orbits the Earth?”

Lord Asriel looked at her then as if he were expecting her to turn around and claim her words as a joke - and he was. He stared at her relentlessly and sighed when she said nothing, running a hand through his hair. Then he pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began drawing a primitive diagram of the solar system. When he explained that the Earth actually orbited the Sun, Lyra burst out into laughter, amused by the absurdity of that idea. 

“Lyra, focus,” snapped Lord Asriel. But Lyra had been focused for too long, and so he told her to get her shoes on and meet him at the door. Thrilled at the chance to be in the outside air again, she did exactly as she was told and laced up her boots, with an eagle-formed Pantalaimon itching to get out. Lord Asriel reached for his coat and opened the door, allowing Lyra her first breath of fresh air in days. Despite the season, it was warm, and a light breeze cooled her cheeks.

She let out a small whimper as Pantalaimon tugged at the boundary of their bond, and from soaring through the autumn haze he flew closer, easing the pain that had shocked them both. Stelmaria’s reaction to her freedom wasn’t nearly as extreme, but there was a renewed affability to her step. She watched Lyra and her dæmon with wariness, but the weight of her gaze was far less suffocating than it had been within the confines of the house.

Again Lord Asriel strode swiftly ahead of her, and Lyra was running to catch up with him, Pan flying happily enough ahead as a butterfly. “Where are we going?” She asked, breathless from the exertion.

“I need to speak with someone.” He said brusquely. Even Stelmaria was hastening to keep pace with him, but in no way did it make her appear less graceful.

“Who?” she persisted, but it was to no avail.

“That’s my business.”

They passed the markets they had done days previously, and Lyra was tempted to ask her Uncle if they might try the food, but she doubted that he’d allow it. Besides, she was curious to know where he wanted to go, and as it always did, the curiosity within her won the battle.

They turned onto a darker street, narrower than the ones they’d walked before. Lines of trees lined cobblestone pavements, casting tall shadows onto the roads. Unsightly houses towered over them, blocking out much of the remaining sunlight in their immensity. Lyra felt as if she had entered a different time, in some sort of purgatory between day and dusk, which favoured neither. A faint smell of burning coal drifted from some of them, and scrunched her nose up in distaste. It must have been a poorer area, because Jordan and the surrounding houses were lit using anbaric lights or naptha lamps, which were her favourites.

The streets were empty save for a few workers making their way home early, and one of them knocked into Lyra, causing her to lose her balance. Rather than apologising, he carried on, turning back to look at her disdainfully as if it had been her fault. Perhaps it had. Stealing a glance at Lord Asriel, she guessed that such occurrences must have been common here, and that the people of London were ruder than the ones she’d known at Oxford. (Not that it really bothered her, she was never an advocate for manners).

Another left turn and they made it to a similar backstreet, even dingier than the last. 

“Where d’you think we are, Pan?” she said to Pantalaimon, who was hidden in her coat pocket as an ermine.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, peeking his little head out to scan their environment. “Maybe we’re going to visit somebody important.”

He wasn’t far off, for they took another right (onto a slightly more respectable-looking road) and stopped, with Lyra taking great efforts not to stumble into her uncle. Luckily for her, she didn’t, and watched as he took out of his pocket a neatly folded piece of paper.

“Here,” he said, passing it to her. Lyra had to resist the burning temptation to open it immediately. “That’s a list of items we’ll need later. You’re to speak to a Mr Brockman, and tell him my name. He’ll know what to give you.”

Confusion overtook her interest, and she frowned. “But you haven’t given me any money. How am I supposed to buy anything?”

“I haven’t, because I know what you’d do with it if I did. We wouldn’t be getting any supplies.”

“You can’t know that!” Lyra protested, now quite seriously offended. Pantalaimon didn’t mention that she’d been thinking of telling the clerk that she didn’t have enough money, and after getting the items she needed, going to try some of the foods at the market. He didn’t say a word, because he himself had been quite tempted by the idea. 

“I can,” said Lord Asriel. “Because it’s what I would have done as a boy. Now, wait in the shop for me and don’t run off. I’ll be back within the hour.”

Before she could retort, he was gone, Stelmaria at his heels. Lyra huffed in frustration.

‘He always thinks he’s right! It’s so annoying, en’t it?’ she thought to Pantalaimon.

‘Yes, he’s rather like you.’

Pan sensed that, after his comment, he’d be better off saying nothing to Lyra in her stormy mood. 

The building they were standing in front of was rather unassuming, which was exactly why Lyra liked it so much when she went inside. Like the other buildings on the street, it was made from cobblestone, with two small windows on either side of a mahogany door. Plain, dull, drab, she thought. But when, after seriously considering running off and stealing some food anyway, she finally entered, that changed. 

As the door creaked open, a bell tinkled to alert the owner to her arrival. The room was dimly lit, and cramped (considering there was so much packed into it) but somehow charming. Pushed against the deep burgundy walls were racks of furs of all origins, colours and sizes. In the heat of the place she forced herself to look away, nauseated by the idea of wearing them at that minute. In glass cabinets there were all sorts of strange artefacts: an old, rusted compass that lay decrepit and solitary (and making her grateful for her alethiometer), the preserved bodies of insects she’d never before seen, fragments of pottery and glass. In one there seemed to be a severed hand, although she was sure it was fake. Wasn’t it?

Pantalaimon leapt from Lyra’s arms in order to explore for himself, but this time he was  
far more careful not to tug on the delicate bond he shared with her.They carefully examined each of the exhibits, if that’s what they were, taking the time to marvel as each became more exciting than the last.

The passing minutes blurred into one, and so Lyra had no idea how long she’d been in the shop when a man, presumably the owner, entered from the back room. He was tall, possibly as tall as her uncle, and appeared to be about forty-five or so. Fine lines were etched into the crevices of his face, which was long and thin. Upon noticing her he seemed startled; he almost dropped the large box he was carrying. 

“Are you Mr Brockman?” asked Lyra, trying as subtly as possible to get a look at what was in it (and failing).

Eyes narrowing, he peered closely at her. She got the impression that there might have been a thousand tiny metal cogs in his brain, all rusty with age, working in conjunction to make him think.

“Yes,” he said. Then a smile broke out onto his face, tentative, but there nonetheless. “Would you be Lyra? Lord Asriel’s girl? Come, child - sit here, and I’ll make some choclatyl.”

He led her to a burgundy chair in the far corner of the room, and gestured for her to sit. 

“I’m his niece. My parents died years ago,” she said cautiously.

“Of course. I’ve known your uncle a long time,“ he said. “What can I do for you?”

Lyra then remembered the list in her pocket and took it out. Resisting the temptation to open it was more difficult than she hoped, but as she handed it to him she made herself remember she’d see what was on it anyway. 

“My uncle gave me this.” 

She watched Mr Brockman’s weathered eyes as they scanned the list, listened to the noncommittal grunts of acknowledgement he made until he looked back up at her, pocketing the paper.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve got everything you need. The real question is, what do you need it for? You can’t be more than...what? Ten?”

“I en’t ten, I’m twelve,” she retorted, quite tired of adults underestimating her age (and, with it, her potential).

“You’re going to the north, aren’t you? For what other purpose would you need all of this?”

“I don’t know what that list says, because I en’t read it,” Lyra admitted, rather outraged at his ignoring of her true age.

“Come now,” said Mr Brockman placatingly. “There’s no need for such a harsh tone. I have exactly what you need, but only if you are willing to cooperate.”

She hung her head, but he only laughed, flicking the switch on an old, rusted kettle that under any other circumstances Lyra would not touch, let alone drink from. She wasn’t fussy child, either - she suspected that she was so disliked by some of the kitchen servants that they spat in her food. However, she quite liked Mr Brockman and thanked him as he passed her a warm mug of the rich drink, deciding not to comment on the less than passable state of his kitchen equipment.

“What’s all this stuff for, anyway? That my Uncle’s asking for?” she asked, too impatient to wait for him to settle himself in the worn armchair. He did not see any reason to rush, instead taking his time and putting his feet up on a small wooden foot-stool.

“You are an inquisitive girl, aren’t you? There are measurement instruments listed here, furs, compasses, long-lasting foods, anything you could ever need for an expedition. And if my memory does not fail me, Lord Asriel is rather famous for his research, is he not?”

“So he’s going on another expedition?” Pantalaimon crept onto her shoulder, nuzzling her neck. Lyra paid him no mind, instead leaning forward to listen to whatever the shopkeeper had to say.

“When I cannot say. But if I know Lord Asriel, it will not be long before his thirst adventure pulls him far from here.” Mr Brockman’s face, she noticed, had become quietly pensive. Each of his eyes seemed to focus on something entirely different from one another, and both were things she was unable to see for herself. His left eye was slightly cloudy, and darker than the right. Lyra doubted that it impacted his vision, but it was strange to look at. Cautiously, she cleared her throat.

“You knew him?”

“As a boy, yes,” he chuckled. “Bloody daredevil, your Uncle is. Got me into enough trouble for a lifetime with his escapades. But we were close; God knows he’d never dare ask for all this otherwise.”

Lyra wasn’t sure what to make of this. She had never pictured her Uncle to be the sort of man to have companions or friends. He was brooding, unsociable and tenacious (much like herself, although she’d never admit it). To imagine him causing havoc as a child was not difficult, even with her lack of creativity, but the concept of him ever having a friend was entirely unexplored. 

When she voiced this to him, he laughed again and muttered to his dæmon, whom she noticed for the first time. She was a large cat with mottled grey fur, laying so comfortably on the ragged carpet that she blended into it. Her eyes were a deep amber, and within their depths was the same affliction her human counterpart suffered from. Mr Brockman caught Lyra staring, and smiled wryly.

“We were always jealous of Asriel’s Stelmaria,” he said, leaning down to scratch his own dæmon’s head. “A form like that is hard to find - so of course Lirbana had to follow in her footsteps. Didn’t quite manage a leopard, did you?”

Lirbana hissed and stalked as far away as she could manage, and Lyra had to stifle her own laughter. 

“Well, let me handle this list. I’ll have everything you need within half an hour,” said Mr Brockman, brandishing the paper.

Lyra didn’t realise just how tired she’d been until she was awoken by Lord Asriel roughly shaking her shoulders. The near sleepless nights after those awful dreams had finally taken their toll, and as she blinked wearily up at him, Pan an ermine at her neck, she felt herself being pulled up. As soon as she was in her Uncle’s arms, she was out of them, left to fend for herself. Asriel assessed her for a moment, frowning at her obvious lack of coherence. But the sound of approaching footsteps pulled his attention from her.

“Brockman. It’s been a long time,” he said, and the two men shook hands. 

“Many years. I’m afraid they’ve done me no good.”

“You still have your height.”

“I fear that will be the first to go. Now, I have everything you requested, and I have to warn you, the box is heavy. I doubt you’ll get any help from your assistant, either,” said Mr Brockman, nodding towards Lyra.

The two men spoke in hushed tones for a moment, before shaking hands again. Lyra felt a hand on her back as her Uncle led her out of the shop.

In the hour or two they might have been there, night had fallen. The sky was clear, bringing with it the first stars, boasting of their own excellence. Trees cast long shadows across the roads, the moonlight slipping through the gaps in the leaves once in a while. As they walked the desolate streets, neither was observant enough to catch the flash of molten gold that bounded silently through the shrubbery.

A short while later, they were opening the door and stumbling into the warmth of their townhouse - Lyra from tiredness, and Lord Asriel under the enormous weight of the box he had been given. In her sleepy haze she barely felt herself being lifted, didn’t register the graceful steps her Uncle took as he carried her upstairs. Just as he had done not two months before, he removed her shoes and laid her on her bed. Lyra’s eyes fluttered closed, and she became so accustomed to the other weight on her bed that she missed it when it was gone. 

“Uncle?” she murmured. “Will you tell me about Mr Brockman?” 

Lord Asriel groaned. “You are the single most stubborn child I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.”

The mattress dipped again, though, and she listened, enchanted by the tales of two mischievous boys, jumping over fences, fighting bullies and stealing apples from markets. She listened for so long that she couldn’t discern when the whispered goodnight had come and the clicking of the door had sounded, and when the images came, so unlike those of her nightmares from the nights before. There was only sleep, pure and blissful - and the elegant jumping of the golden monkey from her window ledge.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best, but it could be worse. Let me know what you think and if you have any theories about what might be happening :). (Where did Asriel go?) Working through some writer's block right now, but hopefully, there will be more updates soon. Enjoy!

“Pan? Pan, what are you doing? Come back!” Lyra ran after him as noiselessly as she could manage. It was hard to tell what time it was, but she knew it was early, and even her limited imagination could picture the atrocities she might suffer should her Uncle catch her running about the house in the middle of the night.

It had been only minutes since they’d woken, gasping from the remnants of a dream they could barely remember. Lyra could see nothing, could hear nothing, and she wondered darkly if she were even alive at all. It had been so cold in the bed, with both of them struggling desperately to get warm. Pantalaimon had startled, whispered something to her, and then bounded for the door, transforming from an ermine to a fruit bat. Lyra had been compelled to go after him, quietly panting as Pantalaimon tugged on their delicate bond, flying as far ahead of her as he could bear to be.

Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen stairs she counted until she reached the ground floor, squinting in the darkness to search for her dæmon. Luckily, she’d remembered the creaky ninth step and had leapt over it with a level of agility which surprised even her. Eventually she caught sight of the dark wings of his bat form, growling under her breath as she reached for him. 

“Uncle Asriel en’t going to be happy if he finds us out of bed. You’d better come back now, or I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Pan taunted, his amber eyes glinting in the bleak darkness. “Isn’t this a role reversal? You’re usually the daring one.”

Lyra crossed her arms over her chest, gritting her teeth. “I wasn’t trembling as a mouse in my coat pocket whenever he spoke.”

“I’m afraid of everyone. You’re supposed to be afraid of no one.”

“I’ve got enough sense to be afraid of him,” she countered.

“This is worth it, I promise.”

Lyra bit her tongue, refusing to risk saying anything that might alert Lord Asriel to her current position. Pantalaimon began to fly away from her again, and she was forced to follow him. In truth, the idea of being the one to follow anyone else was the repulsive thing, not the prospect of adventure. Lyra was a Belacqua - related to a Lord - and that meant bowing to no one. So it was with reluctance and much resentment that she followed him to the front door, feeling for the walls around her. 

Pantalaimon transformed again, back into an ermine. His white coat was almost invisible, a slightly lighter patch in the sea of ebony. He scurried across the cold wooden floor (she heard his paws scratching it) and stopped a few feet in front of her.

“Look,” he said simply, as if she also had distinguished powers of night-vision and would be unable to do anything other than stumble around hopelessly.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t see!” She snapped, too tired to feel any remorse.

“Alright,” said Pan. “Crouch down in front of you, I’ve put them where you can reach them.”

“Put what- oh, Pan! What is that?” 

Her retort was cut short as her fingertips came into contact with the sturdy leather. Picking up one of the shoes, she knew that this was not her own but Lord Asriel’s. For one thing, it was far bigger (she could probably fit both of her feet into it should she have decided to try). But what was most alarming was that the shoe was wet - not the kind of damp shoes get if you walk through a puddle in the rain, however. The lining was soaking, and she dropped it immediately, cringing at the rather-too-loud sound it made as it hit the floor. Lyra met Pantalaimon’s eyes then: a shared epidemic of fear spread through them, gripping at their hearts. For a moment, they stared at each other blankly, but the sound of the lights being turned on upstairs sent them clambering back up those thirteen stairs and into their bedroom just as the door adjacent to it swung open.

Lyra’s rib cage surely couldn’t contain the wild, erratic pounding of her heart. Arguments forgotten, she pulled a wildcat Pan to her chest as they lay wordlessly under the covers, waiting.

They didn’t have to wait for long before the door opened with an unsettling groan. Her Uncle’s footsteps were slow, almost arrogant in their undertaking. The light padding of Stelmaria’s paws followed them. Lyra’s eyes remained closed as they loomed over her, willing her dæmon to stay still and quiet. It could have been five minutes before Asriel sighed, spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving the door notably open. They waited until they heard the tell-tale click of the closed door until they dared to breathe.

“Not so brave now, are you Pan?” Whispered Lyra, but the resentment had disappeared from her voice to be replaced with affection.

“It’s besides the point. Did you feel his shoes?” he asked, his tone eager.

“Yes, they were soaking. How d’you think they got that wet?”

“Let’s think about this,” said Pantalaimon. “It didn’t rain yesterday. There were no puddles he could have stepped in. Lord Asriel was with us right until he left us outside Mr Brockman’s shop.”

“Oh!” Lyra exclaimed, beginning to see his point. “So wherever he went yesterday…”

“We don’t know the whole story. He could have been anywhere. He was gone for a long while.”

She grinned, stroking his fur softly. “How did you notice something like that? We were together the whole time.”

“We were so tired, Lyra. I felt like I might fall asleep at any second, so I was trying to focus to keep us awake. I heard his shoes squeaking on the floor, and wondered about it, but I forgot until we woke up. I thought you might like to see.”

“You were right. I’m sorry.”

Neither of them said anything for many hours, both unable to sleep while their minds raced with theories and ‘what-ifs’. Eventually, they gave up, content to watch the shadows shift and the growing light cascade through the curtains until the whole room was bright, symbolising the arrival of morning. Lyra was beyond tired, and this left her with a false sense of being energized as she made her way downstairs.

She found Lord Asriel at the kitchen table, and he pointed to a plate he’d set out for her at the opposite end. It was still so foreign to her: for so long now her Uncle had seemed such a powerful man that he had become unattainable, with no use for trivial human things such as food or water or sleep. It didn’t help that Lyra barely saw him once a year, and never for long enough to see him without a servant waiting on him (or, more likely, cowering away from him). Their eyes locked as she sat down, and from the furrow of his brow and the locking of his jaw, she had a feeling that he very much knew that she had been out of bed the previous night. But Asriel was a man of logic, a man of reason, and without evidence, there could be no persecution. The weight of his gaze was staggering, but she met it with the ease of knowing that there was no way he could prove she had been out, and that as a result, he would not pick her up on it.

Smiling innocently, she began to eat. The food was the same as it always was: rubbery eggs and pale bacon, burned toast and black sausages. It was by no means savoury, or even acceptable, but Lord Asriel was renowned for his research - not his cooking.

“I liked Mr Brockman,” she tried, hoping to coax any sort of information out of him.

She was met instead by the icy glare she always was, and adjusted her strategy.  
“You were gone a long time yesterday.”

“I’m glad you seem to have some perception of time,” he said sardonically.

Pantalaimon’s sharp claws dug deep into her thigh, causing her to out a small yelp of pain. The inhalation was enough to make her choke, and she gripped the chair tightly as she coughed. Lord Asriel regarded her coldly, taking a long sip of his coffee as he waited for the moment to pass.

“Where were you?” She spluttered.

“As much as I need an assistant, it would be much easier to live with a dim-witted child.”

Lyra’s grip tightened so much on her knife that her knuckles whitened almost completely. The burning sensation in her throat had not yet subsided, and this added considerably to her anger. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You underestimate me,” said Lyra, Pantalaiomn climbing to her shoulder in a half-hearted show of support (not that it seemed much against the magnitude of Stelmaria, who was now growling under her breath).

“And you over-estimate me,” he replied, leaving the table abruptly. “You’re to concentrate on your lessons and then you’re to run some errands. I won’t be afraid to lock you in your room, Lyra. Day or night, if you put one foot out of line, you won’t be leaving this house until I say you can. Do you understand?”

It was pointless to argue, so she didn’t.

By the time her tutoring session had finished, Lyra was so desperate to escape the suffocating captivity of the house that she was completely indifferent to the weather. It was uncommonly dark for three o’clock; the sun was completely obscured by the dark and brooding clouds hanging low over the cityscape. A myriad of colours merged together to create the murky mass of sky, shades of emerald and ash and indigo twisting and dancing around each other. They moved swiftly, sweeping across the sky, forming and re-forming unidentifiable shapes. The incoming storm brought with it gale-force winds which sent her stumbling out of the door. She was undeterred, and holding Pantalaimon close, headed for the market.

They walked as fast as possible, pushing with as much force as they could muster against the powerful gusts of wind. Lyra was laughing, she realised, relishing in her sudden and unrestrained freedom, joyful in the knowledge that, should she choose, she could run from London now - away to the North- and never return. The ice of Svalbard would numb the perpetual pains she suffered from. It would all fade away: the loss of the parents she had neither known nor missed, the longing she felt to see Roger again, the neglect she felt from the Uncle that had forgotten to care for her. Her hopes, her dreams, her torments all frozen forever in time under the apathetic lights of the aurora. They'd be preserved like the city of Pompeii she’d learned about.

Lyra was sprinting now, obligations and inhibitions long left behind. The list her Uncle had given her had been dropped who-cares-when. Pantalaimon was calling to her, ever the voice of reason, but she had literally thrown caution to the wind and ignored him. They passed the markets, past the obnoxious, shouting stall owners and pushed through the crowds of Londoners who only got in their way. Her legs carried her down the dirty streets she’d walked the night before, and before long she was back in front of Mr Brockman’s shop. The number ‘25’ was painted faintly on the burgundy door, and the sight of it made her stop and consider, for the first time, where she was. Lost. Lost, but with full knowledge of where she was, she realised - and what a strange feeling it was. If it were strange to be lost when you knew exactly where you were, how disturbed Roger must have been, alone wherever he was with no one to reassure him.

There it was: the sobering thought that made her turn and run back. Poor Roger! However hard she tried to convince herself that he was fine, it didn’t work. He didn’t get her letters, did he? Perhaps he’d forgotten how to write somehow, or he’d been taken ill and was rendered unable to reply to them. No! He was angry with her for not saying goodbye to him. She’d do anything to have said goodbye, and she’d do anything to have him be angry at her again. If she saw that face again, she’d remember it, and she wouldn’t be forgetting now and she wouldn’t be crying. But she wasn’t crying, she was allergic to something in the air and - these were the thoughts that consumed her as she made her way back. The thunder had arrived, rumbling dismally in the distance. With it, the rain came, brutal and domineering, battering them callously.

It had grown much darker in the time she’d been gone (it had been forty minutes at the most) and she remembered the discarded list. It would be useless to search for it now, so she tried to guess what might have been on it, with little success. By the time she had finished, she must have looked insane. Her wet hair clung stubbornly to her face, and her tights were torn, ruined by the mud and the water. Ready to begin the long trek back, she ignored everyone around her and held on tightly to Pan, who was just distressed as she was. The rain was falling so fast and so thick now that sit was a wonder that she could see anything at all, and she was reminded of a blindfolded game of chess she’d once played with Roger after boasting of her skills. And then she was thinking of him again and thinking up ways not to think of him, and it all became far too much. Lightning struck for the first time, illuminating the path in front of her, and then again and again. Darkness had engulfed the streets now, so that she was relying on each strike to light the way. But the many twists and turns and backstreets it was impossible to navigate, and she became increasingly frustrated.

Too tired to carry on, she flung herself into a sheltered shop front and collapsed against a brick wall, watching the water flow heavily into a drain. 

She could have been there hours, alone and cold and abandoned before Lord Asriel found her. At least, that was who she thought it would be when she heard the footsteps. But they were not his. They were lighter, for a start, and less purposeful. A long pair of legs appeared in front of her, slim and feminine. She looked up to see a woman, young and beautiful, staring curiously at her. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, Lyra thought, and had sleek black hair falling in neat curls over her shoulders. She stared at Lyra for a moment, cocking her head as if she weren't sure what to do with her. Slowly, her gloved hand reached out for Lyra’s, pulling her gently to her feet. At her heels stood a monkey, its fur a shade Lyra and Pan had never seen before, like spun gold. He stood obediently at her side, peering curiously at the pair.

“You look lost,” said the woman, in a voice like silk. “What’s your name?”

“Lizzie,” said Lyra automatically.

“Lizzie...do you have a surname?” she asked, smiling as if it were the best thing she’d ever heard.

“Lizzie Brooks.”

She gestured to a parked car by the side of the road. It was expensive, Lyra realised with a start, and she thought she could see a chauffeur in the driver’s seat. “Well, Lizzie Brooks, my name is Marisa, and I would be delighted to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Coulter won't be stealing Lyra away forever - but she does play an important part in the relationship development of Asriel and Lyra ;))


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important! Thinking about a sequel (ik its early lol) but since rewriting TSK and TAS would be very difficult, would you like me to finish this and:  
a) Try it, but take time to think it out  
b) write an extended oneshot compilation giving insight into the relationship
> 
> This one isn't my favourite, but I hope you enjoy it. I wanted to have it out for Christmas, so if there are mistakes it's 11pm. :) Saturday's chapter was finished at 2am oops
> 
> Let me know what you think! I'll come back and flesh this out later. Merry Christmas/whichever holiday you (don't) celebrate!

Leather seats. Black, smooth, soft. That was about all Lyra registered as she was led into the car, half-dazed from her own exhaustion and half from the sheer luxury of her surroundings. She gripped Pantalaimon tightly, making sure he didn’t scratch anything (she was sure her Uncle didn’t have the money to pay for repairs). Tinted windows. Possibly she was dealing with somebody very important - but important people weren’t often women in society. There were the clergymen and the higher members of the Magisterium, and the scholars, of whom a minority were female, but they held little interest. Many of them were there simply to show that it was possible, but it was unfortunately like a masquerade. Female scholars were both unusual and frowned upon (and they didn’t wear such nice clothes). No, this lady was not one; no scholar dressed in silk. 

Marisa noticed Lyra staring, and seeing Pantalaimon struggling to breathe, leaned in to whisper to her with a conspiratorial smile.

“Don’t worry about the car, dear. It isn’t mine.” 

Lyra looked from her elegant, long hands folded in her lap to the driver directly in front of her. Reluctantly, she let go of her dæmon. Pan nipped at her finger, frustrated with his forced confinement. He was ignored. The golden monkey was watching him with an intensity that was bordering on obsessive: Pantalaimon’s every move was being logged and mirrored right in front of him. They pushed down their unrest and turned to look at Marisa when she called for Lyra’s attention.

“However did you end up there, and at this time of night? It must be past ten o’clock by now.”

Here was an opportunity: an area in which Lyra was both skilled and comfortable. 

“My mother sent me and my brothers out to buy food, but I wanted to explore the market. So I left them behind, they didn’t want me there anyway. Then the rain came, and I couldn’t see...I got lost.”

Marisa’s reaction was different from what Lyra had anticipated it might be. Usually, when confronted with a lost child, adults were simpering and sympathetic. Instead, she beamed at Lyra, eyes alight with something akin to scandal. 

“So you’re an explorer, too,” she said, raising a delicately arched eyebrow. “I’ve done my fair share - I don’t blame you for getting lost.”

She’d tried, really tried not to be drawn in by the glamour of it all, but it hadn’t worked, for the moment Marisa disclosed that piece of information, Lyra was hopelessly fascinated. Pantalaimon glanced up at her, eyes wide and glistening with their shared excitement. His claws dug into her thigh again, but she paid him no mind. There were more important matters at hand.

“You’re an explorer?” She asked incredulously. To see a woman in any position of power was rare, but Lyra had never even heard of female researchers. Few men dared to venture out into the vast expanse of unknown territory, let alone women. She supposed that when she went with her Uncle, she would become one, but she was going to be an assistant: not conduct her own experiments.

“Well...I’ve visited many countries, if you’d call that exploring. A few in Africa. That was enlightening. I’m going to be visiting the North again, soon.”

“You’ve been to the North?” 

“I spent a few months in Greenland last year, making observations about the aurora,” she said nonchalantly, watching as a slow grin spread across Lyra’s face. “Have you heard of it?”

Lyra realised that she was playing the role of a child with a much duller intellect than she herself possessed, but was so entranced by the woman beside her that impressing Marisa became far more important than the lie she’d carefully constructed. 

“We learned about it in school. It’s a light show caused by the collisions of electrically charged particles from the Earth’s atmosphere.”

Pantalaimon nipped at her then, as if to warn her. But it was too late. The corners of Marisa’s painted lips lifted into an approving smile, displaying brilliantly white teeth. Seeing that expression made the risk Lyra had taken completely worth it. Nobody had ever looked at her like that before - as if what she contributed meant something, as if she were more than the runt of Jordan College or the half-estranged niece of the great Lord Asriel.

“Very smart, you must study hard. But enough about me...I want to hear about you.”

Unable to refuse her, Lyra began telling her about anything and everything, twisting true stories into lies. The best lies, she’d discovered, always carried some semblance of truth. And so her experiences of running wild on the roofs of Jordan turned into jumping over neighbours’ fences and sneaking into privately owned woodlands. The saga of the Claybed Wars became a long-standing feud with the college kids, and the swapping of skulls in the crypt was now a late-night trip to the graveyard which almost ended very badly. She noted that her heavily tweaked stories resembled the ones Lord Asriel had told her of his own childhood. Perhaps they were more similar than she realised. But through it all, she watched Marisa’s face, enthralled by the way she gasped at the close calls and winced with the knowledge of the scrapes Lyra had gotten herself into. Most of all what thrilled her was that Marisa never stopped smiling at her.

“You don’t seem to be afraid of danger,” she remarked, her expression one of unbridled admiration.

“I en’t,” said Lyra quickly, but she corrected herself just in case her bad grammar had caused offence. “I’m not.”

Instead of the usual scolding she’d get from her Uncle, or the slap on the back of the head from Mrs Lonsdale, Marisa merely laughed at Lyra. It was a very pleasant sound, light and airy, and a wave of overwhelming pride washed over her. Lyra had caused her to laugh, and she liked the sound so much that she felt determined to do it over and over again.

“I wish I was as brave as you are. I’ll admit, I can fight a cliff-ghast, but I can’t stand the sight of a spider.”

Lyra laughed again and begged Marisa to tell her about her research. She was a member of Dame Hanna’s college (not that Lyra really had anything but a vague recollection of her). 

“There’s very little to eat,” she said. “Seal meat, mostly. Hunting them down is the difficult part, but once you have the knack for it, it isn’t a problem. You do have to be careful about what you eat in the North - eating a bear’s liver will kill you in minutes.”

“Did you meet any witches?” Lyra asked, gently stroking Pantalaimon (who, for some reason, was deathly afraid of them). She had heard stories of them from her Uncle, when he was in a rare good mood, and was intrigued to know if they were true.

“Yes, I did - an entire clan. You would have liked them. Negotiations were difficult, but the witches take their word very seriously and never retract their promises. That’s what makes them allies worth having.”

She then launched into a description of the witch queen she’d met in Lapland, beautiful but deadly, and of how she’d given Marisa a crown of flowers to wear. Witches were fierce, and fiercely loyal. They loved violently, and took violent revenge when wronged. If a man refused a witch as his lover, it would not end favourably for him. But when a man accepted a witch, he was rewarded with the most passionate love affair of his life. Lyra hung on her every word, her heart beating increasingly fast. Would she ever meet a witch? And what of Lord Asriel? Perhaps he would meet a witch and fall in love and leave her. Or maybe he would meet Marisa and they’d fall in love. The possibilities were endless, and most of them daunting.

Lyra was extremely disappointed when the car pulled up in front of a block of flats (albeit the nicest she’d ever seen, even in the dark), for it had ruined the finest conversation of her life. No patronisation, no condescension, just two young women who recognised the other’s wit and intelligence. Marisa regarded her with pursed lips for a moment.

“Would you like to come in, Lizzie?” She asked. “I have a feeling this conversation hasn’t reached its natural stopping point.”

Seeing Lyra’s hesitation, she added: “I won’t keep you long, I promise.”

That was all it took for Lyra to nod at her, grinning eagerly. Pantalaimon was back in his mouse form now, very intimidated by the idea of Lord Asriel’s fury. He attempted to remind Lyra of her fear the previous night, but to no avail. They got out of the car and followed Marisa towards the impressive building, the golden monkey watching them all the way. Pan huddled into Lyra, but she only scoffed at his fear.

If Lyra had thought Marisa affluent before, all it took was one look inside the foyer to think her infinitely wealthy. The walls were pure white, with gold accents that gave the place an air of prosperity which Lyra had never experienced before. Marbled floors cooled her feet (she’d taken off her muddy shoes in a rare show of respect). Paintings in gilded frames decorated the walls, and anbaric lamps emanated a soft glow, only adding to the beauty of the room.

She was shown into the living room and was rewarded with even more glamour. There were silver velvet couches and antique wooden side tables, porcelain figures and sets of china, cushions adorned with flowers and floral curtains. The soft carpet between her toes was not something she was used to, especially not at Jordan. Beauty at the college was cold, unfeeling, overwhelmingly masculine: selfish in the way that it boasted of its own grandeur but provided dwellers with no immediate sense of comfort. Lyra had had the privilege of never being unfamiliar with its halls, because she had lived there since she was a baby (excluding the first six months or so). The ornate frigidity of Jordan ensured that the outsider stayed an outsider. Marisa’s flat, however, did the opposite. It was warmly feminine, soft and welcoming: from the first minute she stepped inside Lyra felt at home in a way that she had never felt before. 

Marisa watched Lyra’s mouth open and close like a fish, and waited patiently for her to finish.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “And I’ll fetch us something to drink. What would you like. Tea? Choclatyl?”  
Lyra found tea to be flavourless and bland, much preferring the rich sweetness of choclatyl, but didn’t want to appear childish in front of Marisa. Choclatyl was what little children had before they went to sleep, or what adults had after a particularly tiring day. She didn’t think herself to be either one of those, and opted for the tea. 

It was less awful then she’d thought it would be. Marisa probably had the best tea anyone could have, being as successful as she appeared to be. Lyra was more occupied with making sure not to spill anything on the sofas, which she was sure must have cost a fortune she could never dream of. Her dæmon, as annoying as he had been, was helpful in running around the saucer in a miniature form of the monkey, alerting her whenever he thought the cup might tip over. She was so engrossed with this that she missed whatever Marisa had said to her. 

“Huh?” she grumbled mindlessly, instantly internally slapping herself for her bad manners.

“I’ll be going back to the North in a few months,” said Marisa. She had looked at Lyra oddly, but didn’t seem otherwise offended by her lack of decorum. “I might need an assistant.”

Lyra was immediately jealous and told Marisa this. She’d been feeling as though her own expedition would never come - as if Lord Asriel was purposefully keeping her in London, away from Roger. Of course, she wasn’t stupid enough to mention this. It would rouse suspicion that she didn’t need.

“I want to be an explorer, someday,” said Lyra. “I en’t got the skills yet, but I think I could learn. I want to study Dust.”

It was supposed to be another impressive comment. Something to make her smile and applaud her broad knowledge. As soon as she said this, Marisa froze. The golden monkey bristled, its beady eyes staring at Lyra and Pantalaimon with a frightening intensity. Its gaze burned into them, and Lyra felt herself starting to panic - as if they knew that she wasn’t who she said she was, that she was a fake, a liar, a freak. Marisa was stroking her dæmon’s fur, but he didn’t seem to be responding at all. It was disconcerting, sending a quivering Pan darting behind her back. The monkey kept glowering, tracking exactly where he was at all times. Silence hung thickly in the air, the tension palpable. Neither Lyra nor Marisa wanted to break it, but eventually the former did.

“What do you know about Dust, Lizzie?”

Lyra answered her right away, without thinking. Thinking was the best was to ruin a lie, a planned lie was stilted and unnatural. “I dunno much, really. Heard it from a kid at school. He has a cousin out in the North writing him letters. What is it?”

The last question was a risk, but a necessary one. She thought back to Lord Asriel’s presentation, and the way he’d carelessly shoved her in a cupboard without a thought or an explanation. No one ever thought to tell Lyra things, because they thought her too young to understand. Here was a chance to be treated as an equal, and she would be a fool not to take it.

“I see. No one really knows what Dust is. I’m sure you know more about it than I do,” Marisa said thoughtfully, placing her teacup neatly back in its saucer without a sound. She turned to look at Lyra, the lamps casting shadows over her pretty face. “You look tired, dear. We’d better get you home.”

Glancing down at her half-finished tea, Lyra considered her situation. It was a big mistake to mention Dust - especially when her Uncle had specifically told her never to mention it. But Marisa was the kindest, wisest person she had ever met. She was wonderful. She hadn’t shouted at her or threatened her like other adults might: she had handled Lyra’s question with dignity. Setting down her own tea (with a lot less flair), she followed Marisa back out of the flat and into the car. The conversation had died, so she resigned to watching the passing trees, now barely visible in the pitch black.

Once they reached the market, Lyra directed them as best as she could to a few streets away from Lord Asriel’s house. Marisa offered to take her right to the door, but to avoid being caught in her lie she did what Lyra did best: telling more lies.

“It’s best if I walk the rest of the way. If Mum sees the headlights, she’ll know it’s a car. And if she sees me coming out of a car...well, it won’t end well for me. So I’d better sneak in the back and pretend I’ve been at home all along.”

Marisa hummed her agreement, lightly placing a hand on Lyra’s hair. “I’d like to see you again, Lizzie. Can I meet you here, maybe tomorrow?”

Lyra bit her lip, feeling Pantalaimon urging her to decline. She then eyed the monkey, who hadn’t reverted to his calm and obedient state and was still sneering viciously at her. But then she looked at Marisa, and found she couldn’t refuse. 

“Tomorrow might not be a good idea. If Mum finds out where I’ve been, I won’t be leaving the house for a long time.”

“How about Wednesday? I could pick you up at about four.”

“See you then,” said Lyra, picking up Pantalaimon, who was nearly asleep.

“Goodnight, Lizzie.”

She got out of the car, lugging her shopping with her. By the time she turned around to wave, the car was gone. It was no longer storming, or even raining, but a mist saturated the air, promising a frost the following morning. The moon was full, and Lyra couldn’t help but wonder if (without all of the city interruptions) she might be able to feel its light on her skin on Svalbard. Would the stars look different? Her Uncle had told her that the sky was full of vibrant colour in the North, and that on a clear night, you could see some of the planets. 

Upon reaching the townhouse, she found the door open. Lord Asriel must have been expecting her return. She braced herself for the scolding of a lifetime, but when she entered, she found him at his desk, engulfed by work. Papers littered the tabletop and the floor surrounded it. He was writing furiously, with ink splattering across the pages as a result of the motions. Hearing her entry, his head snapped up. He looked Lyra up and down, registering the mud on her shoes (for once, though, not saying anything about it). 

“You’re not hurt?” He asked, almost lazily. Lyra shook her head. No, she certainly hadn’t been hurt. She expected him to ask her a few more questions, like where she’d been, or to be furious with her, and she’d secretly hoped he’d tell her how worried he’d been. Instead, he took the bag of food, rifled through it and held up a vegetable. 

“None of it’s correct,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “No matter.” 

Then, he began writing again, and Lyra became so infuriated that she forgot to care about how he might react to her disobedience and stormed up the stairs and into her bedroom, slamming the door as loudly as possible. Pantalaimon flinched at the sudden noise, burying into her neck. 

“He doesn’t care!” she whisper-shouted to him. “He doesn’t care.”

“He doesn’t know how to care, Lyra. We have to give him a break,” said Pan. “What are you looking for?”

She’d forgotten where she’d put the alethiometer. In all honesty, she hadn’t looked at it since a few nights after they’d first arrived. It was under a pile of clothes, and she brought it out, opened it forcefully and traced the thirty-six images around the rim. 

“Tell me where Roger is,” she demanded. None of the hands moved, so she tried again.

“Who can I trust?”

Again, there was no change. Frustrated beyond belief, she threw it as hard as she could. It landed on the laundry, fortunately for her. Lyra readied herself for bed and got in, staring at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come, so she whispered to Pan until it finally did. All the time, the alethiometer gleamed tauntingly at her in the darkness.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the 3 week break lads, but we're back! Not sure about this chapter, but let me know what you think. It's gonna get spicy. Anyway, I tried to give you the mild dadriel you guys wanted (not too ooc hopefully though) and I wanted Lyra to get her spunk back. She's getting too philosophical for a 12 year old i- 
> 
> anyways, have fun :)

The dying embers of the day burst across the sky in a display of violent passion. Vibrant hues of pink, orange and purple dominated the vast expanse of clouds. The Sun hung lowly, languidly - refusing the limelight and releasing its dominance over the night. An everlasting war raged between light and dark; the battle turned at dusk and at dawn. At this moment, the Moon was winning. Sleeping constellations finally awakened, providing an obvious contrast against the dark colours painting the sky. The transition was breath-taking. 

Somehow, the spectacle in London was very different from how it had seemed in Oxford. Once or twice on a summer weekend, she had eaten a picnic dinner with Roger, their legs dangling over the roof’s edge as the Sun began its quiet descent. The majesty of Jordan College was, to Lyra, unrivalled. In the daze of the adrenaline and the extravagant beauty of each elegantly crafted building, the entire college seemed to be winding down, slowing temporarily. In the morning, she might watch from the windows as servants and scholars went to work diligently once more on their quest for true academic freedom. But at that moment, she was content to simply watch as the usually cold towers and gargoyles were filled with warmth, and the windows with light. She knew well the exact patterns of shadows that would form in the corridors behind each, as she had observed the sunset from most of them. There was no haughtiness in the atmosphere, just the gradual fading of day into night.

London’s sunset was an altogether different affair. From the tiny window in her bedroom she watched the bustling streets begin to empty, looked down at the ragged stalls of the market against the larger, mansion-like houses of the richer streets. Here, the class difference was so apparent: at Jordan, everybody had their place and that was that - all were equally satisfied with their roles and made no serious effort to alter them. In London, people with money were desperate to flaunt it, and everybody without it seemed determined to resent them. It was the first time Lyra was exposed to the greed of the world she knew so little of. Still, as nighttime drew closer, the cityscape became nothing more than a series of well-defined shadows against a striking sky, like that of an oil painting. And it was enthralling, awakening - more beautiful than anything she had ever known. 

Lyra flung open the window and leaned as far out of it as she could. She couldn’t help but laugh, the wind cooling her face and flying through her hair. Pantalaimon, as a sparrow, squawked in alarm, flapping his wings urgently. “Get back from there!” she heard him thinking. 

They had seen one sunset since they had left Marisa (not including the one right before they’d met) and would have to live through two more until they met again. It seemed unfair that the universe, riddled with meaningless obligations, should try to keep them apart. Marisa was the most wonderful person Lyra had ever met (even if Pantalaimon didn’t think the same of her dæmon, the golden monkey). She was left with a prevailing longing that bordered on obsession. The two days they’d have to stay away from each other seemed like two lifetimes to Lyra, but she’d needed some time to formulate an excuse which she could give to her Uncle. Now that she’d decided on one, the anticipation overwhelmed her; the desire to be treated like an adult, to be thought of as smart, to be left to make her own decisions was too great to resist. Marisa had laughed with Lyra honestly - not with the condescending, thinly-veiled disparagement that visitors to the college often possessed. 

“Two more days, Lyra,” said Pan. His voice sent her spiralling out of her trance. By now, the streets below were obscured completely by darkness. She noticed an ache in her elbows - she’d been leaning on the window sill for an hour, maybe more. 

Then came the sound of muffled voices, and of the door slamming. 

“Lyra!” She heard her Uncle call, and sighed. Pantalaimon became an ermine again, and together they went out onto the landing. They found him standing at the bottom of the stairwell, a pile of letters in his hand. Seeing this, a huge smile broke out across Lyra’s face. Maybe Roger was alright! Maybe he’d sent her a letter to tell her that he was fine. He’d been caught up with his duties, or maybe he’d taken the blame for one of their many misbehaviours and had been punished. Pan was uneasy, unwilling to believe that any good news could arrive after weeks and weeks of torturous waiting, but stayed silent. Lyra needed to feel hope again after suffering for so long without it, and he let her. Even if it was only a few seconds of bliss.

She bounded towards Lord Asriel, tripping on her own feet on the way and nearly crashing into Stelmaria. The leopard gracefully stepped sideways to avoid contact with her.

Pantalaimon had been right to be sceptical. It took one look at her Uncle for Lyra to realise that there had been no reply from Roger. Defeat gathered like dust in the lines of his face, stagnant and shunned. It was evident in the slight slope of his shoulders, although to anyone that hadn’t lived with him for long (or, to the Lyra of months before) it would have been invisible. His posture retained its tenacity - Belaquas never forfeited their strength, he’d told her. 

Lyra wasn’t sure what she’d exactly expected to happen, or how she’d expected herself to react. There was no sudden surge of emotion like the release of water from a dam, no onslaught of endless tears. No screaming or shouting, or putting the blame on anybody else. It was worse than that. Just a dull, throbbing pain which penetrated her soul, chilling each and every bone in her body. Pantalaimon curled into her, trying to offer as much comfort as he could - but it was never going to be enough. They searched for a way to place the sensation, and it didn’t take them long. They felt now exactly as they had in the horrible dreams which had plagued them for weeks on end. Dreams of Roger, watching her as she drowned in her own guilt and sorrow, too tired to proclaim her innocence.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” asked Lyra. 

She wasn’t looking for a lie, or for reassurance. She wanted the truth, and Lord Asriel finally seemed ready to provide it. 

“There’s only so much I can do,” said her Uncle. Stelmaria hummed her agreement, looking up from the whispered conversation she’d started with Pantalaimon. Lord Asriel leaned down to grasp her shoulder, providing a level of stability Lyra didn’t realise she’d been lacking. The contact spread a warmth through her that, had it remained for long enough, might have begun to mollify the pain she felt. However she had been affected by the gesture, she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes. If she did, she would have to accept his surrender. Even so, his next words made her look up at him against her own will. “I’m sorry.”

Such simple words, and yet they carried so much meaning. Lyra imagined that she was the first person such a phrase had been spoken to by Lord Asriel. The apology was unpracticed, forbidden, tumbling from his lips like a curse word might. But none of this diminished their significance. It was enough to cause Lyra’s eyes to flit up, meeting his. The sincerity she identified within them was nearly as surprising as the comfort he’d provided her with. He was not a fortress, she realised. For the first time, he was a man.

Lord Asriel led her to the chair closest to the fire (she’d later remember that it was his own). The flames were high, warming her legs. 

“This,” he said, handing her one of the letters he’d been holding. “Is from the Master.”

Lyra took it with some trepidation. Why would the Master be writing to her now? She could understand a need for communication when she’d first arrived in London - but he’d not tried to make contact with her. Pan leapt up to join her, nestling into her side. He revelled in the warmth, unable to stand the cold.

Lord Asriel did not move from where he was standing. He was staring at her, again, in the way that she hated - with a discerning eye, as if simply by doing so he could pick apart each problem that plagued her and its precise solution.

Upon opening it, she immediately recognized the elegant cursive of the Master’s handwriting. It was unmistakable.

Dear Lyra,

I hope this letter finds you well. I regret not having sent you a letter before now, but these dangerous times demand a certain level of caution. Had I attempted to send you anything by post, I fear that you would have been found. Situations have changed drastically since your departure: for one thing, there is now a warrant out for Lord Asriel’s arrest. The Magisterium is searching every corner of Oxford for the two of you. Jordan College has been torn apart with the sole intention of apprehending your Uncle. Look after yourselves. I do not tell you this to frighten you, but to make you aware that you are being watched. Knowing you as I do, I implore you not to draw any attention to yourself. If I didn’t know any better, I would tell you to stay inside at all times, where Lord Asriel can keep an eye on you. The chances of that happening are slim to none. You’ll be fighting with the local children within minutes of reading this letter.

As for Roger, I am afraid that no one has seen him for weeks. There are rumours surfacing among the servants that he has run away, although I place little faith in them myself. Nonetheless, Cook and Mr Cawson are still looking for him in the hopes that he is safe and well. If I hear any news, good or bad, I will not hesitate to contact you. 

I hope that you remember our last conversation, and that you are keeping my gift safe. It will be important. I cannot tell you how, for I don’t know myself, but you must at least keep it safely in your possession if nothing else. I want you to be selective with your trust, Lyra. You are not as skeptical as you believe yourself to be. Not everyone is worthy of your faith.

This letter was delivered to you by hand, and I have not addressed it. I would advise you not to respond, but if you must, I would suggest you do so in the same way.

Yours sincerely,

Dr Carne

Not as impulsive as the Master believed her to be, Lyra read the letter once, and then twice. Of course, they were being hunted down - nothing concerning her Uncle was ever simple. Chewing her lip, she folded the letter and put it hastily back into its envelope. 

“They want you arrested,” said Lyra, finally looking at Lord Asriel. 

“They’ve wanted my arrest for a long time,” he replied, after a considerable pause. The loud crackling of the fire had faded; every sound went unheard. 

“What did you do? It must have been something big if they’re tearing up Jordan to find you.”  
“Ah,” said Lord Asriel, sinking into a chair opposite her. He took his time answering, stretching out his legs and allowing Stelmaria to wind herself in between them. “If it were one single occasion, I doubt the Magisterium would go to this much effort. By now, I’d be worried if any choice I made didn’t cause a stir amongst them.”

A smile spread across his face, self-satisfied and smug. It was a cold expression and Lyra felt the need to recoil from it, but refrained from doing so.

“It’s your research, isn’t it?” she asked, stroking Pantalaimon absentmindedly. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement, but there was a level of instability between them that made her phrase it as such anyway.

“Clever girl,” said Lord Asriel: neither Lyra nor Pan could tell whether or not he was being sarcastic.

He walked to the desk, opening the drawers and pulling out two photograms. Lyra recognized them immediately - the images had been burned in the back of her mind for months. One was of the adult and the child, side by side. Around the adult was a cloud of shimmering particles. Dust. The other was the image that had captivated her from the first moment she’d seen it, cramped inside that horrible wardrobe. The city in the sky, rising gracefully from the lights of the aurora. It was faint, barely visible in the firelight, but it was definitely there. Lord Asriel didn’t miss her audible intake of breath.

“Do you know what that is, Lyra?”

“I en’t stupid, it’s Dust,” she said defiantly. 

“Watch your tone. But do you know what Dust is, Lyra? Do you really understand it?”

She chose to remain silent then.

“Of course you don’t. I don’t understand it myself. And neither does the Magisterium,” he added. 

With great care, he took the photograms back from her and put them back. Lord Asriel regarded her silently for a moment, before leaning forward.

“Adults fear things they cannot understand. Dust is, perhaps, the most complex - and therefore frightening - concept that has been discovered for many years.”

“What’s so bad about Dust?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said. “But I can’t do that if I’m custody. No more running wild with the other children. No more exploring in storms I need you to keep yourself out of trouble, do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle,” said Lyra, in a tone as obedient as she could muster. “Goodnight.”

Asriel sat in silence for a few minutes, listening out for the telltale ‘click’ of Lyra’s bedroom door. At last it came, after what he suspected may have been her lingering at the stairwell, waiting for him to say something revealing to his dæmon. She was intelligent, in her own way - he’d give her that. She was also tenacious, meddlesome, disobedient (everything he couldn’t stand in a child, and yet, everything he had embodied as a young boy). And yet his future was closely entwined with hers.

Stelmaria, still idly laying by the fire, turned to look at him, amusement ablaze in her eyes. 

“You’re a fool if you think she’ll ever listen to you.”

“I know,” he admitted, reaching for the decanter of tokay and pouring himself a glass. 

“Such a pity the Master decided to poison you,” said Stelmaria. “You’d have enjoyed the ‘98.”

The look he sent her in return was scathing.

*

Lyra, confined to her bed, pondered over the letter from the Master. The idea of Jordan being ransacked was foreign to her. For the first eleven years of her life, it had felt like the safest place on Earth. And she’d been protected by scholastic sanctuary, then - was the Magisterium so daring that they’d disregard such a long-established tradition? It appeared so. She was shaken by the news, but nevertheless undeterred. As if an arrest warrant would stop her from meeting Marisa again! Or from anything, for that matter. Lyra wasn’t an idiot; she knew how to keep herself safe. She would just have to be more...covert about her adventures.

“Lyra,” said Pantalaimon, whispering harshly in her ear. “We can’t.”

She nudged him, rolling her eyes at the yelp of pain he let out (if it had really hurt him, she would have felt it. 

“Stop being such a baby, Pan! She picked us up in the middle of the night and we were safe. You’re just bitter cause you don’t like her dæmon.”

Pantalaimon shuddered at the thought of meeting the golden monkey again. 

“You know what, Lyra? You’re right. I don’t like her dæmon. You saw the way he reacted when we mentioned Dust. He’d have had my neck in his jaws in seconds. You being too blind to see it doesn’t make Marisa trustworthy.”

“I en’t! Whether you like it or not, we’re going. She knows things. About London, about the North. And she’s willing to teach us about it! There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Lyra,” Pantalaimon groaned, but she turned to face away from him and went to sleep.

The significance in the conversation lay not in what was said, but in what was left unsaid. What Lyra really hoped for was any information she could get on the Gobblers, or the Magisterium, about the North, or Roger’s whereabouts. If there was one person that could give answers to her questions, it was Marisa. 

And so it was that, two days later, they crept out of the house just as Lord Asriel was leaving - whether for a meeting, or to gather supplies, they couldn’t be sure. But they took advantage of the opportunity, making sure to leave a window open on the ground floor. Pantalaimon whispered to himself relentlessly as they navigated the now-familiar markets, weaving through crowds of haggling strangers and wild children. 

Their punctual arrival at the meeting place was a testament to Lyra’s enthusiasm (she was never on time for anything she didn’t want to be). As the distant church bells signalled the turn of the hour, the sleek black car from two nights ago came into view. Brakes slammed, the car stopped and out stepped Marisa. Dressed just as tastefully as before, she walked over to Lyra, took her hand in her own gloved one, and led her back to the comfort that came with affluence. 

“It’s lovely to see you again, Lizzie.”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyra attends the cocktail party, and begins to realise that there's something not quite right about Mrs Coulter. Actually, there's not very much that's right about her at all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe I actually got up off of my ass and actually updated this story? Hopefully I can keep it up, but I figured I ought to finish it, especially with the second season of HDM just around the corner. I'm back with a vengeance bitches, and I've only gotten more chaotic in the last year - this is your one and only warning.

Over the next two weeks, Lyra became very close with Mrs Coulter. It was a strange connection, having developed so quickly, but one that she enjoyed despite Pantalaimon’s hatred for the woman’s dæmon. Marisa taught her about the North, and about science and geography that Lyra would have no interest in otherwise. She’d introduced Lyra to her associates during a lunch at the Royal Arctic Institute, a grand building containing some incredible artefacts. And then there were the etiquette lessons, which she hated with a passion, but that Mrs Coulter had insisted upon - as a woman, she had said, it was much harder to gain the respect of high society - and much easier to lose it.

The moments Lyra treasured, however, were not the many outings she’d been taken on, or the lessons or the compliments a proud Marisa would whisper into her ear when she got something right. She didn’t live for the brilliant food she was served or the pretty clothes she’d been bought, in an array of silky fabrics and bright colours. What mattered the most to Lyra was that Mrs Coulter treated her as a mother might: with gentle caresses, brushing her tangled curls, kissing her forehead as a greeting and as a goodbye. There were scoldings, too. Firm and eloquently expressed, worlds away from the incessant but well-meant screaming she’d endured from Mrs Londsdale back at Jordan.

Pantalaimon, who stubbornly remained a wildcat for as long as he was near Mrs Coulter, was perpetually reminding Lyra that there was something off about them - and he was continually getting brushed off. Since the first incident, during which the Golden Monkey had appeared ready to pounce on them, Lyra had been diligent in avoiding the topic of Dust. It had worked. He hadn’t appeared angry in the past few weeks, and she began to relax. Dangerous or not, life with Mrs Coulter, in the stolen moments they had spent together, was far more exciting than the one she shared with her Uncle.

Lord Asriel had been becoming increasingly distant as of late. Each morning, he’d come downstairs, muttering a ‘hello’ if he was in a good mood and would serve her an extremely unsatisfactory breakfast before leaving the house abruptly. They hadn’t had a lesson in weeks - not that Lyra was complaining. Her Uncle wasn’t stupid enough to leave the door open when he left, locking it as securely as he could, but he couldn’t prevent her escapes from various windows in the house. She’d been lucky not to get caught, but Asriel didn’t come back until late at night, often laden with bags and boxes. With his disgruntled moods becoming more common by the day, she didn’t dare ask what they were for.

“Lyra! I’m going out. I’ll be back late. Stay out of trouble!” he called up to her. She waited for the slamming of the front door before she leapt out of bed with a surprising amount of energy for six o’clock in the morning, startling an ermine-formed Pantalaimon, who glared up at her. He had probably been up all night worrying, for their plans for the day were risky.

That, Lyra had told him, was what would make them worthwhile.

She was dressed and climbing deftly out of the window in seconds, relishing in the rushing of the air before she met the ground with a thump, knees bent. Pan, who hated these daily occurrences, yelped and peeked out from her shirt pocket, his nose twitching in anxiety.

“I still think this is a stupid idea, Lyra. Lord Asriel explicitly told us not to look for her. He even refused to say her name!” he cried.

Lyra huffed and replied with a snappish tirade “Well what have you seen that’s so bad about her? You just hate her dæmon, that’s what. And my uncle en’t even told us what’s wrong! I know what you think, because you en’t shutting up about it. We’re going to the party and that’s that.”

The party she was so excited about was one that Mrs Coulter had been planning for weeks with Lyra’s assistance. She’d picked out _hors d'oeuvres, _whatever those were, and had sat with Marisa for hours deliberating over a guest list on which there was nobody she knew.

Feeling guilty for her anger, Lyra kissed Pan’s head and put him back in her pocket as they walked to their meeting place. As always, the sleek car awaited them, but Mrs Coulter was not, as far as they could see, inside of it.

With some reluctance, they climbed in. The vehicle was unmistakable anyway: no one in a part of London this poor owned a car like that.

“Mrs Coulter said to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t be here,” said the driver. “She’s making last-minute preparations and eagerly awaits your arrival.”

They weren’t familiar with the chauffeur and didn’t know how to act, so Lyra murmured her thanks and stared out of the window for the remainder of the short journey.

Marisa was dressed in finer clothes than Lyra had ever seen her in, and that was saying something. Royal blue silk was draped elegantly over her shoulders, pooling by her calves. Her hair lay in perfect pin curls, provoking a small amount of envy in Lyra, who had considerable trouble with her hair.

“Hello, Lizzie. You look wonderful, dear,” she said, smiling widely at her. Lyra was wearing one of Mrs Coulter’s selections, a restrictive purple dress which, in all honesty, she hated. She would much rather have worn her own clothes, but by now knew that it would be highly inappropriate to choose one of her plain pinafores over the fancy dresses stuffed in the back of her wardrobe. Should Lord Asriel find them, she was highly prepared to tell him she’d stolen them. Perhaps he’d think her impressive then. Or just stupid. That was more likely.

Lord Asriel would always think she was stupid.

“Thank you, Mrs Coulter. I like your dress,” Lyra said, hiding a grin which was not at all ladylike.

Mrs Coulter let her eagerness slide, helping Lyra out of her coat. “Thank you. You ought to let me take that bag, Lizzie. It’s lovely, but not quite right for the occasion.”

Lyra sighed. The bag in question was her favourite - a white shoulder bag large enough to stash away all the necessary equipment she might need on her adventures, but small enough not to hinder her movement. Considering that she had stashed the alethiometer in it, she was very reluctant to let it go (even to Mrs Coulter).

Shoving down the stubbornness she was sure she’d inherited from her uncle, Lyra scrambled to charm her way out of the situation with what she’d learned in those blasted etiquette lessons. Maybe they would be of some use to her, after all. “Oh...please may I keep it with me, Mrs Coulter? I’ve got a pen and paper there, so I can remember who I’m talking to and what about - just like you said I should. It won’t be any trouble, I promise,” she tried, widening her eyes in a way that had managed to tame even the famous Mrs Lonsdale back at Jordan.

Marisa’s smile remained fixed on her face, but the sharp rising of her chest told Lyra that her persuasive attempt had failed miserably. The golden monkey growled, its penetrating gaze fixed on Pantalaimon. “Now, Lizzie,” she said warningly, “I understand that you’re getting old enough to make your own decisions about these things, but you must let me guide you. It looks ridiculous to be carrying such a bag inside.”

A jolt of anxiety struck Lyra. It’s most likely source was a shivering Pan, who poked his little ermine head out of the bag. One glance at the sharp expression on Mrs Coulter's face coaxed him out from his hiding place and winding around Lyra's feet as a polecat, ready to defend her at any moment. His decision was the right one. 

Taking a deep breath, Lyra tried one last time, “It’s barely even noticeable, it’s so small-”

A sharp scream pierced the air as the golden money launched itself at Pantalaimon. There was a delay of a few seconds before Lyra realised that the shriek had been her own, and one born from pain. Writhing in agony under the monkey's unforgiving grip, it was a matter of seconds before Pantalaimon was hopelessly overpowered. Lyra sank to her knees, feeling the pain rip through her entire body as if tearing her apart. In satisfied silence, Mrs Coulter watched as her daemon attempted to rip Pantalaimon limb from limb - as if boredom was his only motivation.

"Please!" Lyra cried, her eyes filling with unshed tears, "You're hurting us! Stop!"

Mrs Coulter raised an eyebrow, putting a calming hand out towards the golden monkey. Her daemon paused in its assault, Pantalaimon still pinned to the ground. The searing pain lessened to a dull ache, leaving an incongruous mixture of relief and terror in its wake. 

"You'll do as I say?"

"Yes, I promise!"

A few moments passed in which Lyra and Mrs Coulter stared at each other, with resentment in the eyes of one and cold fury in the eyes of the other. Permeating the silence were Lyra's ragged breaths; between her and Pantalaimon, she was sure that Mrs Coulter could hear the combined hammering of their hearts. 

"Better. I won't have you behaving in such a crude manner, Lyra. If you continue to do so we will argue again, and I can assure you that it won't be pleasant. Put that godforsaken bag in the guest room. And smile, won't you? It won't do to look so sullen in front of our guests," Mrs Coulter said with a simpering smile, gesturing for the golden monkey to withdraw. 

He did, leaving Pantalaimon gasping for breath. Lyra opened her arms for him to dart into, holding him close to her heart and whispering apologies into his ear. Mrs Coulter simply went to open a window, for the confrontation had left a dizzying smell of mixed sweat and sweet perfume: one that the partygoers were sure to dislike. 

Shaking, Lyra got to her feet, ignoring the way the golden monkey's eyes followed her every movement. She hid the bag under the bed in the guest bedroom, praying that Mrs Coulter wouldn't go looking for it. Then she stopped to catch her breath.

"I'm so sorry, Pan. I should have believed you before. She's awful," Lyra said, willing her hands to stop shaking. 

Pantalaimon reverted to his ermine form, sneaking up to curl around Lyra's neck, "Don't worry about it. But we really shouldn't talk here._ He_ might hear us."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you seen it? Half the time they're not even together. I bet she sends him to keep an eye on us!"

Now that Lyra thought about it, Pantalaimon was right. Multiple times she had seen Mrs Coulter standing alone, only to be joined by her daemon so quickly afterwards that Lyra wondered if it had all been a trick of the light. But how?

Distantly, the doorbell rang.

"You think they can...what? Separate? That's crazy, Pan!" she hissed, "Maybe they can just go further without needing to be together."

"I don't know, but we need to get out of here. When are we running away?"  
  
Lyra thought for a moment, casting her mind back to the untroubled days when she'd fought the townies with the other college kids. Being a savage had taken a lot less effort than being civilised. 

"I don't know exactly. We'll have to wait until she's busy. Distract her, probably."

Pan sighed, "We'd better get back before she wonders where we are."

Together, they crept out into the living room, which was now beginning to fill with guests. Lyra got stuck talking to an elderly lady about where she (didn't) go to school and quickly lost interest after the satisfaction of introducing herself as Mrs Coulter's personal assistant. The illusion surrounding Marisa's character may have eroded, but Lyra couldn't shake her liking for the glamour that came with being her associate. Eventually, she found an excuse to leave the old woman alone, slinking past her and into the crowd of people. Hours passed just like the first, with Lyra being forced into conversation with many people she had no interest in whatsoever. The afternoon faded and the skies darkened, leaving the room illuminated by the glow of anbaric light.

Over the music drifting from a gramophone in the corner of the room, it was difficult for Lyra and Pantalaimon to distinguish one voice from another, and so they blurred together in a kind of mindless chatter. That was until Lyra caught a word she'd forbidden herself from saying out loud. 

"-We've been studying Dust for years, of course, but nobody's been able to make any real progress until recently. The particles are attracted to adults, but not children. Barely touches them until they reach adolescence. That discovery was more than enough to rattle the Magisterium."

The speaker was most likely a scholar, although Lyra noted with a residual sense of pride that he didn't belong to Jordan. He was perhaps in his mid-forties, but nowhere near old or wise enough to occupy a place at Oxford. Practically hanging off his arm was a younger, blonde woman who focused intently on every word he said.

"Surely they're investigating it anyway? It might be heretical, but that sort of research is revolutionary," she said, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

"You'd be best to ask Mrs Coulter about that. That's what the Oblation Board is for."

Lyra followed the woman's gaze as it flitted momentarily towards Mrs Coulter, who was engaged in deep conversation with a man across the room. 

The woman's eyes widened and she dropped her voice so low that Lyra strained to hear it, "Really? She's part of it?"

"The Oblation Board is entirely her own idea. She's been working on it for years, you see, but never had enough support within the Magisterium to push forward with it-"

He was about to continue, but he saw Lyra and cut himself off. Beckoning her over, he spoke again, "I'll bet you know exactly what's going on, don't you? Being an associate of Mrs Coulter will ensure your safety. I wonder if she might use _you_ to help further her research. If that's the case, you're a very lucky girl."

Despite Pan's whispered warnings, Lyra couldn't resist a chance to find out everything she could about this so-called Oblation Board - especially if it had anything at all to do with Dust. "I'm her assistant, so she'll probably need my help," she said, "I've been all sorts of dangerous places, really. I've fought with the Gyptian kids before - they're brutal if you get on their bad sides - and I've not been caught by the Gobblers-"

"The Gobblers? Is that what they're calling the Oblation Board? How curious," said the woman, her brow furrowed. 

A chill shot through Lyra. Pantalaimon trembled at her neck, telling her that they should leave, that they shouldn't be here, that he knew they shouldn't have come in the first place-

"Yes, it is rather odd. It's from the initials: General Oblation Board. Comes from the medieval 'oblate', or sacrifice. In the Middle Ages, children were given up by their parents to be monks or nuns. They're doing quite the same now, but I'm sure you already knew all of this, didn't you? You might want to speak to Lord Boreal. He's over there, with the snake for a daemon-"

Lyra nodded dumbly, for one of the first times in her life quite unsure what to say. Planning her escape route, she turned away from the pair, but a hand catching her wrist prevented her from leaving. 

It was the woman she'd been speaking to not a moment ago, "Wait just a minute...what's your name?" 

"Ly-Lizzie," Lyra answered, suddenly remembering her alias. 

"Come and speak with me. Do you have a minute?"

Without waiting for an answer, she dragged Lyra over to the window seat, her butterfly daemon fluttering behind her. The view from the bay window was gorgeous, displaying the river, with the lights of the city reflected in its murky waters. It mirrored none of the dread bubbling inside of her.

"My name's Adele Starminster. I'm a journalist. Am I right in saying you know Mrs Coulter?" 

"Yes, I'm her assistant," said Lyra, although the pride she'd taken in saying that previously had been replaced by a faint feeling of sickness. 

Adele hummed, "Really? I'd have thought you were her daughter, or something. You're very young to be her assistant...what's she like?"

Pantalaimon whispered a number of words to describe Mrs Coulter into Lyra's ear, and none of them were pleasant. She hesitated for a moment, "Clever. Very, very clever."

"Yes, well, I could have told you that myself. I mean in private - does she treat you well? Is she kind or cruel?"

"She's nice, I suppose," said Lyra, lying through her teeth. 

"Hm. So, what do you help her with? I wouldn't have thought you'd be doing anything with the Magisterium, but perhaps something else..."

"Well, I-" Lyra began, but froze when she saw a figure appear behind Adele. 

Mrs Coulter was furious. The faint smell of metal emanated from her, as if something was burning. Stony-faced, she glanced between Lyra and the now shaking journalist.

"In a moment, you're going to tell me your name. I won't force it out of you - if you won't tell me yourself, it won't be five minutes before I know it. You'll have lost everything you hold dear when I'm done with you. Don't think your employer will get out of this either. Now, you're going to leave, quietly, because I'll make your life hell if you don't, and I never want to see your face again. Do you understand?"

Her voice was low, measured, but oh God, it was deadly. Lyra stared helplessly at her interrogator. Adele hadn't moved since Mrs Coulter approached, and her eyes remained focused on a spot just above the other woman's head, as if she were afraid to look directly at her.

Lyra realised, a rare wave of self-hatred passing over her, that she admired Mrs Coulter, in all of her dark glory. 

Adele Starminster did not utter another word. Instead, she did exactly as she was told, like a pawn crossing a chessboard, ready to meet its death.

With a predatory smile after the woman, Mrs Coulter turned to Lyra. What little admiration Lyra had chided herself for just moments ago dissipated instantaneously. Pantalaimon crept out from his hiding place behind Lyra and into her lap, unable to look away from their would-be captor.

They were alone. And, at that moment, Lyra realised just how much danger she was in.


End file.
